UNIVERSITY  OF 
CXtlFOtNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


AMERICAN    SONG 


A    COLLECTION  OF   REPRESENTATIVE    AMERICAN 

POEMS,    WITH  ANALYTICAL  AND   CRITICAL 

STUDIES  OF  THE    WRITERS 


WITH  INTRODUCTIONS 
AND  NOTES 


BY 


ARTHUR   B.   SIMONDS,  A.M. 

Fellow  in  the  Romance  Languages 
at  Columbia  College 


G.   P.   PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

27    West  Twenty-third  Street.  24  Bedford  Street,  Strand, 


1894 


2521.9 


COPYRIGHT,  1894 

BV 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 


Electrotyped,  Printed  and  Bound  by 

Ube  fmfcfeerbocfcer  press,  flew  Jt}orh 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


What  is  a.  Poet  ?  He  is  a.  man  speaking  to  men  :  a  man  endowed 
with  more  lively  sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tenderness,  who 
has  a  greater  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  a  more  comprehensive 
soul,  than  are  supposed  to  be  common  among  mankind. 

WORDSWORTH'S  "Preface  to  Lyrical  Ballads" 


PREFACE. 


The  present  volume  has  two  distinct  aims.  It  in 
cludes,  first,  a  compilation  of  American  poems  (mostly 
short  selections)  drawn  from  the  era  beginning  about 
the  commencement  of  the  century  and  reaching  to 
the  present  day.  As  a  compilation,  therefore,  it  may 
be  of  interest  to  the  general  reader,  as  well  as  of 
special  service  to  a  student  of  literature  wishing  to 
acquaint  himself  readily  with  types  of  American 
poetry. 

Secondly,  the  book  may,  it  is  hoped,  be  useful  for 
making  an  inductive  study,  both  of  the  chief  Ameri 
can  poets  and,  less  completely,  of  the  other  poets 
from  whose  writings  extracts  are  taken  according  to 
the  plan  of  the  volume.  The  order  in  critical  study 
should  be,  first,  the  single  poem ;  then  the  poems  of 
one  author,  later  the  poetry  of  this  author's  period ; 
finally,  the  consideration  of  American  poetry  as  a 
whole.  Thus  Bryant's  composition,  Thanatopsis,  is 
first  to  be  studied,  then,  by  means  of  successive  ex 
amination  of  other  poems,  a  view  is  to  be  gained  of 
the  whole  of  Bryant's  verse.  After  Bryant,  with  in 
creasing  attention  to  the  comparison  of  an  author's 


vi  Preface. 

poems  one  with  another,  Whittier,  Emerson,  and  the 
other  poets  of  the  same  group  may  be  studied  in  a 
similar  way ;  and  the  successive  inductions  collated 
and  compared  to  show  the  poetical  worth,  as  a  group, 
of  these  "  Classics."  Around  this  group  may  then  be 
viewed  and  with  it  compared,  after  similar  but  more 
brief  special  study,  the  other  groups.  At  the  close, 
therefore,  of  such  an  examination,  the  student  should 
be  prepared  to  arrive  at  a  just  estimate  of  American 
poetry  in  its  intimate  relations  ! 

The  teacher  or  the  student,  who  wishes  to  make 
his  study  more  thorough,  may  employ  the  volume 
not  merely  as  a  text,  but  as  a  hand-book  introductory 
to  a  careful  private  reading  of  the  best  books  on  the 
special  fields  of  the  subject.  For  this  purpose,  in 
connection  with  the  introductory  sketch  to  each 
principal  poet,  selected  bibliographical  references  are 
given,  directing  attention  to  the  works  which  have 
seemed  to  the  editor  the  most  effective  for  rendering 
each  author's  personality  clear  and  vivid.  Among 
such  references,  the  editions  recommended  of  the 
poems  may  be  assumed  as  first  in  importance  ;  then 
the  biographies  of  the  poet ;  lastly  his  prose  works. 
In  the  bibliographies,  which  have  been  made  pur 
posely  brief,  magazine  articles  on  the  poets  have 
not  been  given  mention.  Such  articles  may,  in  cer 
tain  cases,  undoubtedly  be  of  service,  but  dealing  as 
they  usually  do  with  complex  questions  rather  than 
with  elementary  matters,  they  need  to  be  used,  in  the 
case  of  beginners,  with  extreme  caution,  and  should 
hardly  ever  be  regarded  either  as  authoritative  in 
themselves,  or  as  worthy  of  complete  acceptance  for 


Preface.  vii 

moulding  the  opinions  of  any  student  who  has  not 
finished  the  preliminary  groundwork.  Good  cyclo 
pedias,  however,  will  often  be  found  convenient  for 
giving  in  a  brief  space  the  facts  of  an  author's  life. 
In  general,  the  largest  public  libraries  may  of  course, 
be  used  to  advantage  by  students  within  reach  of 
them. 

For  showing,  as  a  further  step,  the  place  of  poetry 
as  a  part  of  American  thought  and  literature,  Rich 
ardson's  American  Literature  (G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons) 
will  be  found  a  trustworthy  guide. 

But  even  without  the  opportunities  afforded  by 
helps,  like  these,  good  work  may  be  done  by  means 
of  a  private  collection  composed  of  the  works  indi 
cated.  More  valuable,  however,  than  anything  else 
is  careful  choice  and  attention  in  respect  to  what  is 
noble  in  the  spirit  of  poetry  itself. 

The  contents  have  been  divided,  also  for  didactic 
reasons,  into  two  parts  ;  and  on  the  same  ground, 
these  parts  are  further  subdivided.  In  Part  I. 
authors  who  (with  one  exception)  are  no  longer  liv 
ing  are  represented  by  several  poems,  and  are  con 
sidered  more  fully  than  are  the  authors  in  Part  II. 
In  the  first  group,  under  Part  I.  are  included  the 
authors  who,  in  the  general  opinion  (perhaps  in  one 
or  two  instances  in  the  opinion  held  by  the  editor), 
stand  in  the  front  rank ;  in  the  second  group  are  selec 
tions  from  certain  other  prominent  poets  who  died 
not  long  ago.  Part  II.  is  made  up  of  poems  by  other 
authors,  with  brief  notices  prefixed  in  each  case :  a 
plan  intended  to  prevent  total  ignorance  on  the  part 
of  the  student  of  the  writers  of  the  great  mass  of 


viii  Preface. 

American  poetry,  as  well  as  to  avoid  pronouncing  to 
an  unnecessary  degree  upon  the  importance  of  the 
earlier  authors  partly  forgotten  or  of  contemporary 
poets  who  still  have  a  future  in  which  to  produce. 

Of  the  subdivisions  of  Part  II.,  the  collection  of 
war-ballads,  grouped  in  subdivision  II.,  explains  it 
self.  Between  subdivisions  I.,  and  III.,  the  following 
tentative  line  of  demarcation  was  drawn  :  poets  born 
before  1820  were  placed  in  subdivision  I.  ;  those 
after  1820  in  subdivision  III.  While  such  classifica 
tion  may  appear  somewhat  arbitrary,  it  was  adopted 
as  a  preliminary  toward  indicating  that  decided 
differences  exist  between  early  and  later  American 
verse.  Most  of  these  differences  may  be  more  easily 
felt  than  defined.  One  of  the  principal  distinc 
tions  is  perhaps  that  the  former  tended  to  rudeness, 
the  latter  to  refinement  of  form. 

Some  exceptions  have  been  made.  Certain  authors, 
for  instance,  who  were  born  before  1820  but  who  are 
still  living  or  whose  works  are  comparatively  recent, 
are  classed  as  "  Contemporaries." 

In  taking  up  the  present  book  for  study,  the 
group  "  Classics,"  which  is  placed  first,  will  be  found 
as  a  rule  the  most  convenient  to  begin  upon  ;  but  in 
this  group  it  may  be  desirable  to  omit  Poe  and 
Very,1  if  the  book  is  used  for  younger  classes.  At 
Swords  Points  may  be  taken,  without  previous 

1  The  reasons  for  the  insertion  of  the  poetry  of  Jones  Very  in  the 
division  entitled  "  Classics  "  are  given  in  the  separate  introduction  to 
Very's  poems.  That  one  purpose  of  the  volume  is  to  be  useful  to 
readers  who  are  somewhat  mature,  makes  the  innovation  no  indis 
cretion  at  most.  My  reservation,  as  in  regard  to  Poe,  would  suggest 
the  limitation  of  the  experiment. 


Preface.  ix 

study,  for  reading  aloud,  or  for  recitation.  For 
purposes  of  literary  study,  however,  this  group  as 
well  as  the  remaining  three  can  to  advantage  be 
preceded  by  "  Classics  "  ;  while  the  last  group  in  Part 
I.,  and  the  last  in  Part  II.  had  better  not  be  studied 
critically  in  class  except  by  the  most  mature. 

In  the  course  of  the  study  of  American  poetry,  a 
treatise  on  the  general  subject  of  poetry,  such  as 
Bryant's  Lectures  on  Poetry  (found  in  the  first  volume 
of  his  prose  writings),  or  Wordsworth's  Preface  to 
the  Lyrical  Ballads,  can  be  read  to  advantage. 

After  the  native  field  has  been  thoroughly  gone 
over,  a  modest  estimate  of  the  results  secured  may 
follow  a  reading  of  Leigh  Hunt's  discussion,  "An 
Answer  to  the  Question  '•What  is  Poetry? '  A 
patriotic  reader  will  do  well  to  remember,  that  as  Mr. 
Richardson  has  finely  said,  "  Though  thought  cannot 
die,  the  life  of  books  and  of  authors  is  of  minor 
importance." 

Acknowledgment  must  be  made  to  those  pub 
lishers  or  others  whose  courtesy  in  granting  the  use 
of  copyrighted  material  has  made  this  volume  possi 
ble.  Those  to  whom  I  am  indebted,  and  the  volumes 
from  which  the  respective  works  are  taken  (or  the 
poems  themselves),  are  as  follows : 

Messrs.  HouGHTON,  MIFFLIN,  &  Co.: 
T.  B.  Aldrich's  Poems, 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen's   The  Silver  Bridge  and  Other 

Poems, 

Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary's  Poems, 
Miss  Cone's  Oberon  and  Puck,  and  The  Ride  to  the  Lady  and 

Other  Poems, 
Cranch's  The  Bird  and  the  Bell,  and  Caliban, 


Preface. 


Emerson's  Poems,  and   May-Day  and  Other  Pieces, 

Bret  Harte's  1'oetical  Works, 

Holmes's  Poems, 

Lucy  Larcom's  Poems, 

Longfellow's  Poems, 

Lowell's  Poetical  Works  and  Hcartease  and  Rue 

Parson's  Poems, 

Saxe's  Poems, 

Sill's  Poems, 

Stedman's  Poems, 

Story's  Poems, 

Taylor's  Poems, 

Celia  Thaxter's  Poems, 

Edith  Thomas's   Lyrics  and  Sonnets,  A  New  Year's  IWasque, 

and  Round  the  Year, l 
Thoreau's  The  Fishing  Boy, 
Whittier's  Poetical  Works, 
Woodberry's  North-Shore  Watch,  and  Other  Poems, 

Messrs.  D.  APPLETON  &  Co.: 
Bryant's  Poems, 
Halleck's  Poems, 

Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  Civil  War, 
Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  Revolution. 

Messrs.  A.  C.  ARMSTRONG  &  SON: 
Poe's  Poetical  Works.2 

THE  BALTIMORE  PUBLISHING  Co.: 
Ryan's  The  Conquered  Banner. 

THE  BOWEN-MERRILL  Co.,  of  Indianapolis: 
Riley's  Old-fashioned  Roses. 

1  In  a  few  instances,  as  with  this  author,  the  titles  of  other  volumes 
than  those  used  for  purposes  of  selection  have  been  given. 

1  I  take  pleasure  in  quoting  from  the  letter  of  this  firm  :  "  We 
write  to  give  you  the  permission  you  ask  for,  provided  you  will  name 
us  as  publishers  and  sole  owners  of  all  of  Poe's  works,  and  so  state 
our  firm  name  and  address.  Yours  respectfully, 

"A.  C.  ARMSTRONG  &  SON, 

"  New  York." 


Preface.  xi 

THE  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  Co.: 

Miss  Gilmore's  Pipes  from  the  Prairies, 
O'Reilly's  Poems.1 

Messrs.  EFFINGHAM,  MAYNARD  &  Co.: 
Willis's  Poems. 

Messrs.  LEE  &  SHEPARD  : 

Mrs.  Howe's  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic, 

THE  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  Co.: 
Read's  Poetical  Works. 

Messrs.  LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  Co.: 
Higginson's  Madonna  di  San  Sisto. 

THE  D.  LOTHROP  Co.: 
Hayne's  Poems, 
Scollard's  With  Reed  and  Lyre. 

Mr.  GEORGE  GOTTSBERGER  PECK  : 
Mrs.  Cooke's  Poems. 

Messrs.  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS  : 

American  War  Ballads,  compiled  by  G.  C.  Eggleston, 

Elaine  and  Dora  Read  Goodale's  Apple  Blossoms,  In  Berk 
shire  with  the  Wild  Flowers,  Verses  from  Sky  Farm,  All 
Round  the  Year. 

J.  H.  Morse's  Summer-Haven  Songs. 
Messrs.  ROBERTS  BROTHERS  : 

Verses  by  (H.  H.).  Mrs.  Jackson. 
Messrs.  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS  : 

Lanier's  Poems, 

Lathrop's  Dreams  and  Days. 
THE  F.  A.  STOKES  Co.: 

Cheney's  Wood-Blooms  and  Thistle  Drift. 
Dr.  R.  M.  BUCKE: 

Whitman's  November  Boughs  and  Leaves  of  Grass. 
Mrs.  J.  T.  FIELDS  : 

Fields's  The  Stars  and  Stripes. 

1  A  volume  of  extracts  from  O'Reilly's    Poems,  entitled    Watch 
words,  is  published  by  the  Cupples  Co.,  Boston. 


xii  Preface. 

Mr.  C.  H.  QOAQUIN)  MILLER  : 

In  Classic  Shade's, 

Songs  of  Italy, 

Songs  of  the  Sierras, 

Songs  of  the  Sunlands. 
Mr.  YVON  PIKE  : 

Dixie  and  Every  Year. 
Mr.  R.  H.  STODDARD  : 

The  Country  Life. 
Miss  L.  L.  A.  VERY  : 

Jones  Very's  Poems. 

Among  those  to  whom,  in  the  preparation  of  this 
volume,  I  have  been  indebted  for  personal  kindness 
and  advice,  I  desire  to  express  my  thanks  to  Mr. 
John  Vance  Cheney,  to  Mr.  C.  F.  Holder,  and  to  Mr. 
D.  C.  Lockwood  ;  to  Prof.  C.  M.  Gayley ;  and  es 
pecially  to  Prof.  H.  A.  Todd.  To  my  former  fellow- 
teacher,  Mr.  Austin  Lewis,  I  wish  to  make  acknowl 
edgment  for  valuable  suggestions.  Among  the 
books  consulted,  I  have  to  refer  to  the  Appendix  by 
Mr.  Arthur  Stedman  to  the  Library  of  American 
Literature,  to  which  I  have  frequently  resorted  for 
facts  about  authors'  lives. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  crave  the  indulgence  of 
those  who,  I  am  fully  aware,  know  much  more  about 
poetry  than  I.  They  will  see  the  defects  of  my  per 
formance,  but  they  will  also  appreciate  what  difficul 
ties  have  attended  the  task.  If  my  volume  may 
succeed  in  winning  from  them  acceptance  as  a  deserv 
ing  attempt  in  the  right  direction,  I  shall  feel  well 
repaid  for  the  labor  of  its  preparation. 

A.  B.  S. 

PARIS,  France,  October, 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFACE          ..........  v 

PART  I. 

I.— CLASSICS. 

GENERAL  INTRODUCTION i 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

Introduction           ........  4 

Thanatopsis            ........  8 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood      .         .         .11 

To  a  Waterfowl 12 

A  Winter  Piece 13 

"  Oh  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids  "  .         .         .         .17 

Italy 18 

The  Rivulet 20 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

Introduction  .........  24 

The  Fountain 29 

To  Faneuil  Hall 33 

Rantoul 35 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Introduction  .........  39 

Give  All  to  Love    .....          ...  44 

Character       .........  45 

Heri,  Hodie,  Cras           .......  46 


xiv  Contents. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Introduction 47 

To  the  River 5* 

Lenore           ....•••••  52 

To  Helen 53 

JONES  VERY 

Introduction  .......••  5° 

The  Silent 53 

The  River 59 

Yourself 59 

Nature 6o 

The  Trees  of  Life 60 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

Introduction 62 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 67 

My  Lost  Youth 73 

Dante 76 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Introduction  .         .         .         .         .         .         •         •         -77 

Ode 82 

To  Charles  Eliot  Norton— Agro  Dolce  ....  88 

Auf  Wiedersehen 89 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

Introduction  ......•••  91 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl 95 

The  Last  Leaf 98 

The  Stethoscope  Song 100 

II.— PRE-EMINENT  LATER  WRITERS. 

WALT  WHITMAN 

Introduction  .........  107 

The  First  Dandelion 109 

The  Ship  Starting no 

What  Think  You  I  Take  My  Pen  in  Hand?  .         .         .  110 


Contents.  xv 

PAGE 

Sometimes  With  One  I  Love  .  .  .  .  .no 

Recorders,  Ages  Hence  .  .  .  .  .  .     in 

To  a  Certain  Civilian     .  .  .  .  .  .  .in 

Not  Youth  Pertains  to  Me  .  .  .  .  .  .112 

I  Saw  Old  General  at  Bay  ....  .112 

Delicate  Cluster     .          .  .  .  .  .  .  .113 

The  Dying  Veteran        .  .  .  .  .  .  .113 

Yonnondio     .         .         .  .  .  ,  .  .  .114 

Aboard  at  a  Ship's  Helm  .  .  .  .  .  .115 

BAYARD  TAYLOR 

Introduction  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .116 

The  Poet  in  the  East 118 

On  Leaving  California   .         .         .         .         .         .         .120 

SIDNEY  LANIER 

Introduction  .         .         .  .         .         .         .         .         .122 

The  Revenge  of  Hamish  ......     126 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee  .          .         .         .         .         .132 

Tampa  Robins       .         .  .         .         .         .         .         .134 

PART  II. 
I.— FORERUNNERS. 

GENERAL  INTRODUCTION 135 

PHILIP  FRENEAU 139 

The  Wild  Honeysuckle  .  .  .  .  .  139 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA 141 

The  Little  Beach-Bird 141 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 143 

Burns    ..........  143 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE 150 

The  American  Flag        .         .         .         .         .         .         .150 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL 153 

To  a  Butterfly 153 


Contents. 


PAGE 

GEORGE  POPE  MORRIS   .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .155 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree  .  .  .  .  .  .155 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS  .......     157 

Idleness  .........  158 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN    .......     161 

Monterey  .........  161 

ALBERT  PIKE  ..........     163 

Every  Year    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .163 

FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD  .  .  .  .  .  .  .166 

The  Dancing  Girl  .......      166 

WILLIAM  Ross  WALLACE  .......  168 

Of  Thine  Own  Country  Sing  .         .....     168 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE  ........  171 

Murillo  and  His  Slave    .......     171 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU  .......  175 

The  Fishing  Boy   .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .176 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ  .......  177 

Song  of  the  Alpine  Guide       ......      177 

GUY  HUMPHREYS  MCMASTER  ......  180 

Carmen  Bellicosum         .         .         .         .         .         .          .180 

JOHN  ANTROBUS  .........  183 

The  Cow-Boy         ........     183 

II—  AT  SWORDS'  POINTS. 

INTRODUCTION         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .187 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE  ........  188 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic  .....  188 
JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS  ........  190 

The  Stars  and  Stripes    .......     190 


Contents. 


PAGE 

ALBERT  PIKE  ..........  192 

Dixie     ..........  192 

ROSSITER   WORTHINGTON    RAYMOND         .....  Ig5 

Cavalry  Song          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .195 

JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL         .         .         .         .         .         .        .197 

My  Maryland         ........  197 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN        ......  201 

Wanted  —  A  Man   ........  202 

JAMES  SLOAN  GIBBONS   ........  204 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More    .....  204 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER          .......  206 

The"VARUNA"     ........  206 

NATHANIEL  GRAHAM  SHEPHERD    ......  208 

Roll-Call        .........  208 

ABRAHAM  JOSEPH  RYAN        .......  210 

The  Conquered  Banner  .         .         .         .         .         .210 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES    .......  213 

Old  Ironsides         ........  213 

III.—  CONTEMPORARIES. 

GENERAL  INTRODUCTION        .......  215 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH      ......  219 

Stanzas           .........  219 

WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY    .......  221 

The  Three  Singers         .......  221 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS   .......  225 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante        .......  225 


xviii  Contents. 


PAGE 

228 

The  Gray  Swan     ....... 

.    228 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON         .... 

.     231 

The  Madonna  di  San  Sisto     ..... 

•     231 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD          

.    233 

The  Country  Life           ...... 

•    233 

LUCY  LARCOM        

.     236 

A  Harebell    

.     236 

ROSE  TERRY  COOKE       

.  238 

Columbine     ........ 

•    238 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     

.     240 

Wedded         

.     240 

ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN      

.     242 

The  Grass  is  Greener  where  she  Sleeps 

.     242 

CELIA  LAIGHTON  THAXTER    

.    244 

The  Minute-Guns           ...... 

.    244 

HENRY  TIMROD      .                        

.     246 

The  Cotton  Boll    

.     246 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE       

.    252 

Sonnet            ........ 

.     252 

A  Little  Saint         

•    253 

HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON           

.    255 

The  Riviera            ....... 

.    255 

Doubt    

.  256 

BRET  HARTE          

.    257 

The  Angelus           ....... 

.    257 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL 

The  Fool's  Prayer 

25Q 

Contents. 


PAGE 

JOAQUIN  MILLER    .........  262 

At  Bethlehem         ......          .         .  263 

In  Yosemite  Valley         .......  264 

Charity           .........  265 

Palatine  Hall         ........  267 

A  Nubian  Face  on  the  Nile            .....  268 

CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD        ......  269 

Tamalpais      .........  269 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY     ........  272 

The  Way  of  It       ........  272 

On  the  Ways  of  the  Night      ......  273 

JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE         .......  274 

Mazzini          .........  274 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY          .......  276 

Three  Graves         ........  276 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER     .......  279 

Oh,  Love  is  not  a  Summer  Mood            ....  279 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP           ......  281 

Strike  Hands,  Young  Men  !  ......  281 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY        .        .                ....  284 

The  Orchard  Lands  of  Long  Ago            ....  284 

Our  Kind  of  a  Man        .......  285 

EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS      .......  287 

Sea  Bird  and  Land  Bird         ......  287 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY      ......  290 

Our  First  Century          .......  291 

To  Leo  XIII  .........  291 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE        ........  292 

The  Spring  Beauties      .......  292 

An  Invocation  in  a  Library    ......  293 


xx  Contents. 

PAGE 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 295 

The  Hunter 295 

The  Angler 297 

MINNIE  GILMORE 299 

The  Deserted  Chapel 299 

DORA  READ  GOODALE 3°i 

A-Berrying 301 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 3°3 

GENERAL  INDEX             3°7 


AMERICAN  SONG 


AMERICAN   SONG. 


PART   I. 
i.    Classics. 

THE  works  of  writers  whose  thoughts,  whose  words, 
and  whose  memories  are  vital  for  successive  genera 
tions,  are  those  to  whom  is  permitted  the  name  of 
Classics.  It  was  by  writers  of  this  class  that  Ameri 
can  literature,  in  the  deeper  sense  of  the  term,  was 
begun  ;  literature  which,  intelligently  studied,  should 
form  an  important  part  of  the  education  of  every 
American  boy  and  girl.1 

This  group,  distinguished  for  breadth  both  of  cul 
ture  and  of  character,  was  not  limited,  in  the  source 
of  its  inspiration,  to  America.  Among  the  in 
fluences  due  to  the  poetry  of  foreign  lands,  the 
principal  influence  came  from  that  vigorous  poetry 
of  England  which  sprang  up  about  the  beginning  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  An  account,  for  purposes 
of  brief  study,  of  the  origin  of  this  American  poetry, 

1  A  perfect  American  culture  will  include  also  the  prose  works  of 
Emerson  and  Hawthorne. 

I 


American  Song. 


need,  therefore,  not  go  back  to  the  epoch  of  the  first 
settlements;  but  requires  only  to  mention  the  adop 
tion  of  style  from  English  literature  and  from  other 
literatures,  and  may  then  proceed  to  mark  the  poetic 
achievements,  under  American  conditions,  according 
to  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty. 

From  this  point  of  view,  if  we  include  the  field  of 
literature  as  a  whole,  the  first  man  of  letters  in  America 
was  Washington  Irving.  A  man  of  taste  and  feeling, 
who  was  familiar  with  the  social  conditions  of  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  Irving  prepared  the  way  for  the 
wide  development  of  American  literature  not  only 
through  his  expression  of  cosmopolitan  ideas,  but 
also  by  awakening  a  public  sentiment  for  literature 
of  a  higher  kind  than  had  been  before  realized  ;  and 
thus  more  easily,  after  Irving,  arose  a  number  of 
writers,  who,  in  prose  or  poetry,  gave  themselves 
generously  to  their  art. 

Before  this  general  result,  however,  and  only  a 
little  after  the  beginning  of  Irving's  career,  the  soli 
tary  figure  of  Bryant  had  stood  forth  as  a  poet  worthy 
of  high  honor  as  a  writer  of  English  verse.  It  may 
be  noted  in  passing  that  American  literature  in  Bryant 
goes  back,  therefore,  a  score  of  years  before  Tennyson 
had  printed  a  line,  and  has,  at  the  present  time,  ac 
cordingly,  an  element  of  age  as  well  as  of  apparent 
permanence. 

In  the  decades  following  Bryant's  first  publication, 
literature  as  a  profession  being  more  favored  through 
the  springing  up  in  the  community  of  an  interest  in 
books  of  an  aesthetic  description,  the  poetic  product 
became  larger  and  richer.  In  purpose,  as  in  character, 


Classics.  3 

this  poetry  was  somewhat  varied.  Sometimes,  as  in 
the  verses  of  Whittier  and  Lowell,  the  cause  of  anti- 
slavery  was  contended  for;  with  other  writers,  such 
as  Longfellow  and  Foe,  the  poetry  appealed  chiefly 
to  the  imagination. 

The  group  as  a  whole  is  the  part  of  American 
poetry,  as  has  been  said,  which  should  at  the  present 
time  be  most  studied.  Forerunners  of  it  are  of  less 
importance  as  literature,  and  later  verse  is  the  work 
of  writers  of  to-day,  who,  being  contemporary  and 
having  the  possibility  of  a  poetic  future,  cannot  fairly 
be  criticised  in  the  same  way  as  those  whose  work 
stands  as  done. 

One  certain  word  of  praise  may  be  passed  on  the 
group  now  under  consideration.  In  general,  per 
haps,  they  did  not  write  too  much  ;  what  they  did 
write  they  wrote  as  well  as  they  could.  In  their 
work,  also,  in  keeping  and  in  enlarging  both  poetic 
and  spiritual  laws,  they  are  in  this  country  historic. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


William  Cullen  Bryant  was  born  November  3, 
1794,  at  Cummington,  a  village  situated  beautifully 
among  the  Berkshire  Hills  of  Massachusetts.  From 
the  Bryant  as  well  as  from  the  maternal  side,  he  in 
herited  strong  poetical  tastes.  His  father  owning  a 
library  of  seven  hundred  volumes,  and  having  excel 
lent  literary  judgment,  Cullen,  as  he  was  called,  was 
carefully  trained  in  writing  verse.  At  first  he  was 
taught  to  imitate  the  English  poets  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  especially  Pope  ;  later  he  studied  Words 
worth,  from  whom  he  learned  to  observe  nature  and 
to  think  poetically.  Not  long  after  acquiring  ac 
quaintance  with  the  Lyrical  Ballads  1  and  with  the 
Greek  poets,  Bryant,  who  had  attended  college  a 
single  year,  wrote  his  first  draft  of  Thanatopsis. 

The  fundamental  conception  of  the  poem — the 
earth  as  a  vast  sepulchre — occurred  to  him  during  a 
ramble  in  the  summer  of  1811.  We  are  fortunate  in 
knowing  something  of  its  process  of  creation.  Re 
flecting  how  all  who  live,  himself  included,  must  die, 
he  began  in  the  middle  of  a  line  : 

1  By  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge. 
4 


Bryant. 


"  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  " 

and  ended  with  the  words  : 

"  And  make  their  bed  with  thee." 

He  afterward  added  his  cheerful  introduction  and 
the  majestic,  impressive  conclusion.1  A  piece  some 
what  similar,  The  Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a 
Wood,  written  four  years  later,  and  published  origi 
nally  under  the  title  of  A  Fragment,  proclaimed  for 
the  first  time  in  America2  the  quiet  happiness  of 
nature  as  open  and  communicable  to  men. 

To  a  Waterfowl,  in  the  same  year,  is  a  contempla 
tion  far  more  sublime  and  profound  in  conception.3 
From  the  self-consciousness  of  Thanatopsis  and  the 
Inscription,  the  poet  attains,  at  the  same  time  with 
higher  art,  a  wider,  truer  view.  His  faith,  as  he  says 
in  the  first  stanza,  has  brought  him  peace. 

Of  similar  calmness,  A  Winter-Piece?  in  1820,  con 
trasting  with  the  summer  scenes  of  the  Inscription, 
delicately  suggests  sights  minutely  observed  and 
adorned  richly  with  fancy. 

Inspired  also  in  1820,  Oil,  Fairest  of  the  Rural 
Maids,  exquisitely  ideal  in  its  borrowings  from  na 
ture,  is  a  noble  tribute  to  Bryant's  lady-love.  How 

1  A  good  example  of  the  process  of  imaginative  conception. 

2  It  was  written  before  the  latter  part  of  Thanatopsis. 

3  See  the  account  of  the  composition  of  this  poem  in  Godwin's  Life 
of  Bryant. 

4  Cf.  parts  of  Whittier's  Snow-Bound  and  Lowell's  Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal,  for  similar  description  of  winter  scenes. 


American  Song. 


precious  she  was  to  him  after  marriage  is  told  in  the 
later  poems,  The  Future  Life  and  The  Life  That  Is ; 
how  grief-stricken  he  was  at  her  death  is  seen  in 
October,  1866.  Other  poems,  The  Hymn  to  Death, 
To  —  — ,  The  Death  of  the  Flowers,  and  The  Past, 
contain  memories  of  his  father  and  of  his  sister. 

The  Rivulet,  dated  Cummington,  1823,  goes  to  make 
up,  like  the  Inscription,  the  surroundings  of  Bryant's 
home;  and  is  characterized  by  a  tone  of  wise  ex 
perience  joined  to  sweet  lyric  freshness.1  Written 
near  the  close  of  Bryant's  ten  years'  practice  of  the 
law,  the  poem  well  represents  that  period  of  his 
poetic  production  :  a  time  when  his  heart  was  given 
to  poetry  especially,  and  when  his  imagination  was 
constantly  expanding.2 

In  1827,  Bryant  commenced  his  editorial  duties 
with  The  Evening  Post,3  and  continued  them  for  the 
remainder  of  his  life.  The  Battle-jlcld,  a  poem  in 
great  degree  personal,  expresses  the  political  earnest 
ness  underlying  Bryant's  chief  object  for  the  next 
thirty-five  years.  Still,  he  increased  largely  his 
poetic  resource  and  variety.  The  Damsel  of  Peru, 
for  instance,  shows  invention  ;  and  the  Two  Graves? 
an  individuality  unique  in  theme  and  in  details. 

1  Note  also,  on  the  artistic  side,  the  melody  of  the  poem. 

2  Not,  however,  with  the  vigor  that  Longfellow's  was  wont. 

3  As  editor  of   The  Evening  Posf,  Bryant's  services  to  journalism 
were  no  less  wise  and  fearless  than  distinguished.     See  extracts  in 
Godwin's  Life  and  elsewhere.     The  matter  and  the  manner  of  his 
editorials  were  weighty  and  matchless. 

4  Cf.  here,  and  in  connection  with  Thanatopsis,  the  fact  that  oppo 
site  Bryant's  birthplace,  on  the  upper  side  of  the  road,  was  a  cemetery. 
The  Graves  were  not  here,  however,  but  remote,  in  an  obscure  spot. 


Bryant. 


Again,  the  unpretentious  poem,  The  Fringed  Gentian, 
reflects  the  modest  charm  of  the  flower,  and  has  a 
distinctive  elegance  of  style.  More  difficult  in  per 
formance,  Catterskill  Falls  is  aerially  light  in  fancy. 
Poems  of  a  larger  horizon  are  the  imaginative 
Hunter's  Vision  and  The  Prairies ;  with  breadth, 
height  is  combined  in  the  two  kindred  pieces,  The 
Firmament  and  When  the  Firmament  Quivers  with 
Daylight's  Young  Beam.  Of  the  rest,  O  Mother  of  a 
Mighty  Race  blends  imagination  with  patriotic  pride  ; 
A  Hymn  of  the  Sea  is  powerfully  conceived ;  and 
spiritual  truth  infuses  The  Land  of  Dreams  and  The 
Conqueror  s  Grave. 

Thirty  Poems,  in  Bryant's  seventieth  year,  is  re 
markable  chiefly  for  containing  political  verse  of 
vigor,  together  with  gentler  poems  dealing  with  the 
mysterious  region  of  fairy-land. 

Among  the  pieces  of  this  period,  Italy  exhibits 
Bryant's  reach  of  sympathy  at  its  widest.  He  was 
especially  interested  in  Italian  independence,  and 
this  confident  burst  of  prophecy  was  followed  about 
a  decade  later  by  his  address  on  the  attainment  of 
Italian  unity.  Among  poems  on  America,  Not  Yet 
is  admirable  for  its  energy  and  firmness  ;  The  Death 
of  Slavery,  full  of  passion  and  sublimity. 

Of  his  lighter,  more  graceful  product,  the  unfinished 
poem,  A  Tale  of  Cloudland,  suggests  an  intention  on 
his  part  of  an  extended  treatment  of  the  supernatural. 
Sella,  a  simple  idyl,  strange  and  wonderful,  and  Little 
People  of  the  Snow  are  artistic  stories  for  children ; 
the  former  tinged  with  classic  as  well  as  modern  color, 
the  latter  much  resembling  the  German  folk-lore. 


8  American  Song. 

A  version  of  the  fifth  book  of  the  Odyssey  included 
in  Thirty  Poems  led  Bryant  to  undertake  the  whole 
of  the  Odyssey  and  the  Iliad.  As  an  English  trans 
lation,  Bryant's  Homer  is  one  of  the  best. 

Another  of  the  collection,  Waiting  by  the  Gate, 
portrays  the  grand  equanimity  of  the  sage  as  he 
muses  on  the  approach  of  death.  A  still  more  uni 
versal  song,  almost  terrible  in  its  bold  dealing  with 
the  fate  of  mankind,  and  irresistible  in  its  sweep,  is 
The  Flood  of  Years,  one  of  Bryant's  last.  Not  long 
after  this  came  his  death,  which  occurred  in  New 
York,  June  12,  1878. 

Special  references  :  Parke  Godwin's  editions  of  Bryant's  Poems 
and  of  his  Prose  Writings,  and  Godwin's  Life  of  Bryant — all  pub 
lished  by  Appleton. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 


Bryant.  9 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air, — 

Comes  a  still  voice. — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 

Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. — The  hills 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 

The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 


io  American  Song. 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 

Of  morning — and  the  Barcan  '  desert  pierce, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,2  and  hears  no  sound, 

Save  his  own  dashings — yet — the  dead  are  there  ; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest — and  what  if  thou  withdraw 

Unheeded  by  the  living — and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 

His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live  that  when  thy  summons  conies  to  join 

The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 

To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 

1  Barca,  a  maritime  region  of  North  Africa,  forming  the  eastern 
division  of  Tripoli. 

2  Oregon,  the  Columbia  River,  which  lies  partly  in  Oregon. 


Bryant. 


Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


INSCRIPTION    FOR    THE    ENTRANCE    TO 
A  WOOD. 

Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 

No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 

Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 

Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 

To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 

And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.     The  calm  shade 

Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze 

That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm 

To  thy  sick  heart.     Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 

Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men 

And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.     The  primal  curse 

Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 

But  not  in  vengeance.     God  hath  yoked  to  Guilt 

Her  pale  tormentor,  Misery.     Hence,  these  shades 

Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness  ;  the  thick  roof 

Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 

And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 

In  wantonness  of  spirit  ;  while  below, 

The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 

Chirps  merrily.     Throngs  of  insects  in  the  shade 

Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm  beam 

That  waked  them  into  life.     Even  the  green  trees 

Partake  the  deep  contentment  ;  as  they  bend 

To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 

Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 


12  American  Song. 

Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to  enjoy 

Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 

That  sucks  its  sweets.     The  massy  rocks  themselves, 

And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees 

That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude 

Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots, 

With  all  the  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 

Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.     The  rivulet 

Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  its  bed 

Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 

Seems,  with  continuous  laughter,  to  rejoice 

In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 

Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 

That  dips  her  bill  in  water.     The  cool  wind, 

That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to  thee, 

Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee  pass 

Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 

TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocky  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 


Bryant.  13 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

A  WINTER  PIECE. 

The  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 
Yet  beautiful  as  wild,  were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now  ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit — when  the  unsteady  pulse 
Beat  with  strange  flutterings — I  would  wander  forth 
And  seek  the  woods.     The  sunshine  on  my  path 
Was  to  me  as  a  friend.     The  swelling  hills, 


T4  American  Song. 

The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 

With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 

Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 

That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.     Then  the  chant 

Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 

Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 

The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 

To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 

And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.     While  I  stood 

In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 

With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 

Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 

Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 

From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 

Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.     When  shrieked 

The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the  woods, 

And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades, 

That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 

Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still ;  they  seemed 

Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 

Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks  ;  the  brook, 

Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 

As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.     Afar, 

The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams, 

And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 

By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 

Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 

Seemed  new  to  me.     Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 

Among  them,  when  the  clouds,  from  their  still  skirts, 

Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 

And  all  was  white.     The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 

Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 

Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee, 


Bryant.  15 


Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 
Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 
That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 
Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 
Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 
The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 
And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches  bent 
Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 
A  circle  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 
The  partridge  found  a  shelter.     Through  the  snow 
The  rabbit  sprang  away.     The  lighter  track 
Of  fox,  and  the  raccoon's  broad  path  were  there, 
Crossing  each  other.     From  his  hollow  tree, 
The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 
Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 
Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 

But  winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes, — he  boasts 
Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows  ; 
Or  Autumn,  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come,  when  the  rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow,  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice ; 
While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.     Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.     Look  !  the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray, 
Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
That  stream  with  rainbow  radiance  as  they  move. 
But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 
The  glassy  floor.     Oh  !  you  might  deem  the  spot 


1 6  American  Song. 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 

Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth — where  the  gems  grow, 

And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 

With  amethyst  and  topaz — and  the  place 

Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 

That  dwells  in  them.     Or  happily  the  vast  hall 

Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 

And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun  ; 

Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 

And  crossing  arches  ;  and  fantastic  aisles 

Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 

Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Raise  thine  eye, — 

Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault  ; 

There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 

Look  in.     Again,  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 

Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 

And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air 

And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light  ; 

Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 

With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast  trunks, 

Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 

Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 

Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 

Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 

The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 

In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines, — 

'T  is  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 

Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 

Where  the  shrill  sound  of  youthful  voices  wakes 

The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 

That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling  drops, 

Falls  'mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 


Bryant.  17 


Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  axe 
Makes  the  woods  ring.     Along  the  quiet  air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds, 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny  cleft, 
Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at — 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall  oft 
Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail, 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  '  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forests  in  his  rage. 


OH  FAIREST  OF  THE  RURAL  MAIDS." 

Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades  ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thy  infant  eye. 


Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild  ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

1  North,  the  north  wind. 


1 8  American  Song. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks  ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thy  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen  ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast  ; 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 

ITALY. 

Voices  from  the  mountain  speak  ; 

Apennines  to  Alps  reply  ; 
Vale  to  vale  and  peak  to  peak 
Toss  an  old-remembered  cry  : 
"  Italy 

Shall  be  free  !  " 

Such  the  mighty  shout  that  fills 
All  the  passes  of  the  hills. 

All  the  old  Italian  lakes 

Quiver  at  that  quickening  word  : 
Como  with  a  thrill  awakes  ; 

Garda  to  her  depths  is  stirred  ; 
'Mid  the  steeps 
Where  he  sleeps, 
Dreaming  of  the  elder  years, 
Startled  Thrasymenus  hears. 


Bryant.  19 

Sweeping  Arno,  swelling  Po, 

Murmur  freedom  to  their  meads. 
Tiber  swift  and  Liris  slow 

Send  strange  whispers  from  their  reeds 
"  Italy 

Shall  be  free," 

Sing  the  glittering  brooks  that  slide, 
Toward  the  sea,  from  Etna's  side. 

Long  ago  was  Gracchus  slain  ; 

Brutus  perished  long  ago  ; 
Yet  the  living  roots  remain 

Whence  the  roots  of  greatness  grow. 
Yet  again 
God-like  men, 

Sprung  from  that  heroic  stem, 
Call  the  land  to  rise  with  them. 

They  who  haunt  the  swarming  street, 
They  who  chase  the  mountain  boar, 
Or,  where  cliff  and  billow  meet, 
Prune  the  vine,  or  pull  the  oar, 
With  a  stroke 
Break  their  yoke  ; 
Slaves  but  yester-eve  were  they — 
Freemen  with  the  dawning  day. 

Looking  in  his  children's  eyes, 

While  his  own  with  gladness  flash, 
"  These,"  the  Umbrian  father  cries, 

"  Ne'er  shall  crouch  beneath  the  lash  ! 
These  shall  ne'er 
Brook  to  wear 

Chains  whose  cruel  links  are  twined 
Round  the  crushed  and  withering  mind." 


20  American  Song. 

Monarchs  !  ye  whose  armies  stand 

Harnessed  for  the  battle-field  ; 
Pause,  and  from  the  lifted  hand 
Drop  the  bolts  of  war  ye  wield. 
Stand  aloof 
While  the  proof 
Of  the  people's  might  is  given  ; 
Leave  their  kings  to  them  and  heaven. 

Stand  aloof  and  see  the  oppressed 

Chase  the  oppressor,  pale  with  fear, 
As  the  fresh  winds  of  the  west 
Blow  the  misty  valleys  clear. 
Stand  and  see 
Italy 

Cast  the  gyves  she  wears  no  more 
To  the  gulfs  that  steep  her  shore. 

THE  RIVULET. 

This  little  rill  that,  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove,  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  awhile,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again. 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  dressed, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warm  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 
List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 


Bryant. 


21 


With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Passed  o'er  me  ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever  joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet  ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear  ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run, 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun  ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks  ; 
The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue  ; 


22  American  Song. 

As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress, 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress  ; 
And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not — but  I  am  changed, 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged  ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I  've  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  coloring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  earliest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date), 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favorite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream  ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall, 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call ; 


Bryant. 


Yet  shalt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep— and  on  thy  side, 

As  ages  after  ages  glide, 

Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 

And  pass  to  hoary  age  and  die. 

But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 

Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here  ; 

Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 

Thy  endless  infancy  shall  pass  ; 

And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 

Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


Whittier  is  not  only  interesting,  like  Bryant,  for 
poems  which  belong  to  a  world  of  imagination  and 
fancy  apart  from  actual  life,  but  for  verse  which 
urges  political  reform.  Throughout  the  history  of 
the  slavery  conflict,  he  wrote  passionately,  arousing 
his  countrymen  to  convictions  of  their  responsibility. 

On  the  I2th  of  December,  1807,  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier  was  born  in  a  farm-house  near  Haverhill, 
Essex  County,  Massachusetts.  His  first  poetical 
inspiration,  if  we  except  the  Bible,  came  from  Burns, 
whom  he  read  at  fourteen  and  imitated  for  a  time. 
Having  gained  at  twenty-one  a  brief,  hard-earned 
schooling  at  Phillips  Academy,  Andover,  and  having 
studied  the  traditions  of  a  native  region  rich  in  living 
legends,  he  was  led  by  contemplation  of  English 
poets,  especially  Scott,  to  the  invention  of  Mogg 
Megone,  a  narrative  poem  which  was  based  on  early 
New  England  lore,  and  which  may  be  taken  as  rep 
resenting  the  poet's  transition  to  originality. 

From  the  date  of  Mogg  Megone  until  1850  he 
wrote  a  number  of  exquisite  short  poems,  quiet  and 
gentle  in  tone,  unpretentious  and  various  in  subject, 
and  manifesting  successive  stages  of  growth  in  power 

24 


Whittier.  25 

of  intellect  and  of  expression.  The  Fountain,  in 
1837,  has  the  very  spirit  of  Whittier's  native  hills 
and  valleys.  A  cooling  breeze  seems  to  blow  around 
and  about  the  poet's  language,  and  the  whole  picture 
is  fresh  and  genuine.  Another  poem  of  nature, 
Hampton  Beach,  is  vivid  in  sketching,  intense  in  ab 
straction,  and  profound  in  spiritual  meditation. 
More  modest  in  form  but  of  equal  power  is  The  Well 
of  Loc/i  Maree,  Among  poems  of  human  associa 
tions,  the  innocent  tenderness  in  Memories  between 
the  person  and  himself  is  to  Whittier  a  remembrance 
both  pleasant  and  precious.  Raphael,  artistic  in  form 
and  in  judgment,  has  a  high  compass  of  thought  and 
of  imagination.  Of  similar  elevation,  To  my  Friend 
on  the  Death  of  his  Sister,  is  a  model  in  its  apprecia 
tion  and  delicacy  of  condolence.  Equally  true  and 
perfect  in  sincerity  and  conscious  pride  is  Our  State. 
Whittier  meanwhile  began  to  sing  in  sterner  strains. 
Against  slavery,  A  Summons  appealed  to  latent  man 
liness,  proclaiming  the  shame  of  cowardly  inaction. 
Similar  but  more  forcible,  To  Faneuil  Hall,  an  un 
noticed  poem  among  Whittier's  best,  combines  vigor 
of  purpose  with  thorough  scorn  and  tearful  pathos. 
There  is  in  it  the  ring  of  the  voice  and  the  stamp  of 
the  foot.  Whittier's  commanding  nature  was  never 
more  roused  than  in  this  poem,  and  he  put  into  it 
all  his  imperious  spirit.  In  Brown  of  Ossawatomie, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  the  gentler  hope  and  trust  in  a 
peaceful  solution  of  the  nation's  problem.  A  similar 
piece,  Eiri  Feste  Burg,1  shows  Whitter's  inspired  hope 
and  his  patient  watching  during  the  war.  The  Song 

1  Ein'  Feste  Burg,  a  sure  stronghold. 


26  American  Song. 

of  the  Negro  Boatmen,  in  1862,  common,  simple,  and 
in  dialect,  images  the  joy  of  jubilee  and  the  new 
confidence  imparted  to  the  slaves  by  freedom. 
Written  about  the  same  time,  What  the  Birds  Said 
has  its  poetic  element  surpassed  by  its  spiritual  light 
of  promise.  All  this  group  have  passion  ;  they  come 
from  a  whole  nature  on  fire.  Some  pieces  of  the 
period  are  fiercer  than  is  usually  regarded  compatible 
with  literary  perfection  ;  others  have  the  apparent 
fault  of  prosiness.  But  on  the  whole  they  have 
claims  to  estimation  as  poems  of  deep  content  and 
uncontrived  expression  ;  they  are  slightly,  if  at  all, 
defective  on  the  artistic  side  ;  and  far  from  being 
marred  by  haste  or  impulsiveness,  their  truth  of  in 
tuition,  strength  of  conception,  and  courage  of  utter 
ance  are  often  supported  by  cogent  reasoning. 

Whittier's  power  of  intellect  is  still  more  evident 
in  his  ideal  portraits  ;  for  no  ordinary  mind  could 
have  treated  successfully  even  the  fall  of  Webster. 
The  method  in  Ichabod  is  unique ;  the  unflinching 
exposure,  with  the  contrast  of  the  orator's  former 
glory,  is  far  more  severe  than  unmixed  condemnation. 
Rant oult  a  panegyric  poem  written  in  1853,  is  typical 
of  Whittier's  commemoration  of  friends  faithful  to 
the  cause  he  revered.  The  poem  itself  is  proud  and 
stately,  chaste  in  simplicity,  and  one  of  the  noblest 
songs  of  America.  Its  figure  is  haloed  with  spiritual 
worth.  What  matter  if,  in  comparison  with  this 
ideal  shape,  the  historic  original  were  really  as  great 
or  not  ?  The  important  thing  to  notice  is  that  there 
is  great  thought  and  great  feeling  in  Whittier.  The 
lines  to  Charles  Summer  again  are  remarkable  for 


Whittier.  27 

their  grand  imagery.  Here  as  before,  Whittier  is 
like  a  painter  worshipping  the  old  saints.  Better 
than  any  of  his  contemporaries,  he  could  perceive 
virtue  in  the  heroes  of  his  generation. 

Whittier  has  also  uttered  strong  religious  convic 
tions.  My  Sojil  and  I  is  a  candid  self-inquiry  of 
motives.  The  Wish  of  To-Day  acknowledges  the 
resignation  of  age.  The  Meeting  is  very  wise  in  its 
criticism  of  a  superficial  philosophy.  Yet  his  re 
ligious  poems  are  not  poems  of  argument  but  poems 
of  faith ;  faith  in  nature,  faith  in  the  present,  faith 
in  his  fellows,  faith  in  God. 

Whittier  gave  most  attention  to  literary  form 
after  the  year  1850.  A  particular  charm  of  style 
often  accompanies  henceforth  each  poem.  Almost 
simultaneously  shine  the  radiance  of  Eva  and  the 
gleam  of  romance  of  Maud  Midler.  The  latter  with 
the  especially  swift  and  direct  Barbara  Frietchie  and 
the  somewhat  coarser  Skipper  Iresoris  Ride  have 
kept  their  places  as  the  best  executed  by  Whittier 
in  ballad  form,  in  which  he  excelled.  Of  the  same 
class,  a  strange  story,  Norumbega,  is  individually 
told.  Side  by  side  with  ballads  flowed  from  his  pen 
touching  reminiscences  of  the  poet's  childhood. 
Noteworthy  in  The  Barefoot  Boy  are  its  painting  and 
emotion  at  the  beginning  and  end.  Telling  the  Bees 
is  quaintly  and  skilfully  related  ;  My  Playmate  is  half 
regretful  for  a  lost  love  of  boyhood  ;  and  the 
later  poem,  In  School  Days,  a  mirror  of  guileless  feel 
ing,  is  still  another  of  a  group  unsurpassed  in  artless- 
ness.  The  narrative  is  blended  with  the  personal 
element  in  Snow-Bound  and  in  The  Tent  on  the  Beach. 


28  American  Song. 

Snow-Botind,  one  of  the  longest  successful  American 
poems,  appeals  to  the  sentiment  of  New  England 
by  its  imagination  of  her  life  of  seventy  years  ago. 
The  Tent  on  the  Beach  has,  among  other  merits,  an 
introduction  charmingly  dreamy,  with  attractive 
sketches  of  the  men  of  letters  who  are  the  inter 
locutors. 

The  two  foregoing  narratives  are  the  works  of 
Whittier  fullest  of  color  and  of  poetic  art,  and 
(especially  Snow-Bound}  the  tasks  of  his  prime.  The 
pieces  subsequent,  however,  to  1868  are  also  true  and 
strong  ;  and  this  last  period  of  his  perhaps  generally 
excels  all  the  others  in  simplicity  of  style.  The 
verses  written  in  1871  on  Chicago  show  that  matters 
even  of  recent  interest  may  be  poetical  ;  How  the 
Women  Went  front  Dover,  though  realistic,  is  sympa 
thetic  ;  and  Abram  Morrison  describes  a  canny 
figure,  homely  and  picturesque. 

Reality  of  outward  life  and  the  great  spiritual 
facts  of  his  country  and  time  are  the  air  and  the  sun 
shine  in  which  Whittier  grew.  In  his  descriptive 
verse,  call  the  scenes  of  his  pages  local  if  we  will, 
they  possess  a  generous  variety  of  interest  from  their 
significance  as  relating  to  New  England,  that  region 
to  which  America  owes  so  much.  Whittier's  moral 
aim,  too,  if  specialized,  bears  the  rich  fruits  of  con 
centration.  To  the  virtuous  who  read  him  carefully 
he  is  neither  provincial  nor  hard  to  understand.  That 
his  works  are  not  more  fully  esteemed  is,  I  believe, 
because  of  the  reverence  for  his  character.  Men, 
seeing  that  the  man  is  superior  to  his  work,  do  not 
perceive  the  sterling  qualities  which  his  poetry  itself 


IVhittier.  29 

has.  They  forget  that  virtue  and  art  at  their  high 
est  points  partake  each  of  the  other.  As  Whittier's 
heart  and  action  were,  so  is  his  poetry.  We  may 
attend  too  much  sometimes  to  writers  as  well  as 
doers  seeking  to  cultivate  in  us  exotic  refine 
ments  which  are  false  to  our  nature.  Whittier, 
not  only  in  his  practical  record  but  in  his  works,  tells 
us  what  active  and  healthful  virtue  really  is. 

Special  reference  :    Whittier's  Poetical  Works,   edition  of  1 888, 
with  notes  by  the  author.    Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co. 

THE  FOUNTAIN. 

Traveller  !  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow,1 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing, 

Where  its  waters  glide, 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 

1  Powow,  a  tributary  of  the  Merrimack  River. 


30  American  Song. 

Through  its  dark  roots  wreathed  and  bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell, 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian  ' 

Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies, 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow, 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill, 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

1  The  proud  Castilian.  "  De  Soto  in  the  sixteenth  century  pene 
trated  into  the  wilds  of  a  new  world  in  search  of  gold  and  the 
fountain  of  perpetual  youth." 


Whittier.  31 

With  the  oak  its  shadows  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 

With  its  chains  of  sand  ; 
Southward  sunny  glimpses  giving, 

'Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 
Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 
Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 

Gazed  that  stranger  man 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 


32  American  Song. 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 
Hills  that  once  had  stood 

Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throwing 
Of  a  mighty  wood, 

Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 

And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept  ! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam. 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear  ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These  bare  hills,  this  conquer'd  river, — 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 

Sadly  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 


Whittier.  33 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 

With  their  fruits  or  flowers, — 
Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 

In  their  school-day  hours, 
Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 
Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


TO  FANEUIL  HALL.1 
1844. 

Men  !  if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still  ; 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die : 

Shut  the  mill-gate — leave  the  stall, 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by  ; 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked, 
Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 

Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 
On  your  fathers'  way  ; 

1  Faneuil   Hall,    in    Boston,    sometimes   called    the    "Cradle    of 
Liberty." 


34  American  Song. 

These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 
Shaking  with  their  earthquake  call 

Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land — 
Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars, 

From  your  mountain  ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall ; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun  ; 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid, — 

Up  to  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks, 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains  ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free — 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

Have  they  wronged  us  ?     Let  us  then 
Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 


Whit  tier.  35 


Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  ? 

Let  us  unchain  theirs  ! 
Up  !  your  banner  leads  the  van, 

Blazoned  "  Liberty  for  all  !  " 
Finish  what  your  sires  began  ! 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

RANTOUL.1 

One  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped  ; 

We  came  next  morn  ;  that  tongue  of  fire 
Said  only,  "  He  who  spake  is  dead  !  " 

Dead  !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome  ! 

Dead  !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 
With  themes  of  state  and  loves  of  home  ! 

Dead  !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 
That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour  ! 

Dead  !  while  we  watched  his  manhood's  prime 
Break  from  the  slow  bud  into  flower  ! 

Dead  !  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and  wise, 
While  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew  breath  ; 

How  deepened,  through  that  dread  surprise, 
The  mystery  and  the  awe  of  death  ! 

From  the  high  place  whereon  our  votes 
Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earnest,  fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

1  Robert  Ranloul,  born  at  Beverly,  Mass.,  in  1805. 


36  American  Song. 

We  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled, 

Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 
For  the  last  battle  of  the  world — 

The  Armageddon  '  of  the  race. 

Through  him  we  hoped  to  speak  the  word 
Which  wins  the  freedom  of  the  land  ; 

And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 
Which  dropped  from  Hampden's 2  dying  hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's 3  feet, 

And  walked  with  Pym4  and  Vane '  apart ; 

And  through  the  centuries,  felt  the  beat 
Of  Freedom's  march  in  Cromwell's '  heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  held, 
Where  England's  best  and  wisest  trod  ; 

And,  lingering,  drank  the  springs  that  welled 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right, 

Self-poised  and  clear,  he  showed  alway 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
The  ripe  repose  of  autumn's  day. 

1  Armageddon,  a  region  of  Palestine.     See  Rev.  xvi.,  14-16. 

*  John  Hampden,  an  illustrious  English  patriot  and  statesman,  born 
at  London  in  1594. 

J  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  born  at  Penshurst,  England,  in  1554. 
4  John  Pym,  a   wise   associate   of    Hampden,  born   at  Brymore, 
England,  in  1554. 

8  Sir  Henry  Vane,  an  English  statesman,  born  in  Kent  in  1589. 

*  Oliver  Cromwell,  Protector  of  England,  born  at  Huntingdon  in 
I599- 


IV hit  tier.  37 

His  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still 

He  pressed  where  others  paused  or  failed ; 

The  calm  star  clomb '  with  constant  will, 
The  restless  meteor  flashed  and  paled  ! 


Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 
And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law  ; 

Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 

The  awful  Shape  the  schoolman  saw. 

Her  home  the  heart  of  God  ;  her  voice 

The  choral  harmonies  whereby 
The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres,  rejoice, 

The  rhythmic  rule  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 
To  poor  ambitions  ;  yet,  through  all, 

We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 

And  right  the  wronged,  and  free  the  thrall. 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth, 

And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact, — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 

And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 
To  make  the  Democratic  name 

Of  Liberty  the  synonym, — 

1  Clomb,  past  of  climb  ;  not  good  in  prose. 


38  American  Song. 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hill  to  strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave, 

And,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave  ! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  his  sail-white  seas, 

The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come, 
And  shape  themselves  to  words  like  these  : 

"  Why,  murmuring,  mourn  that  he,  whose  power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over  long, 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong  ? 

"  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 

No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain  ; 
The  lips  whence  Freedom's  protest  fell 

No  meaner  thought  can  now  profane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 

That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er  ; 
Through  roaring  wind  and  smiting  wave 

It  speaks  his  hate  of  wrong  once  more. 

"  Men  of  the  North  !  your  weak  regret 

Is  wasted  here  ;  arise  and  pay 
To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 

By  following  where  he  led  the  way  !  " 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


The  poetry  of  Emerson  is  to  most  persons  hard  to 
understand  ;  certainly  so  under  conditions  of  mere 
surface  reading.  Yet,  to  understand  it,  takes  a 
method  neither  long  nor  difficult.  Two  things  only 
are  requisite.  To  know  Emerson's  biography  is 
indispensable ;  and  as  appreciation  of  prose  is  easier 
than  that  of  poetry  and  prepares  the  way  for  the 
latter,  a  reader,  to  discriminate  in  and  to  understand 
these  poems,  should  acquaint  himself  with  Emer 
son's  essays. 

Originally  written  and  delivered  as  lectures,  Emer 
son's  prose  writings  find  a  counterpart  in  the  well- 
known  poems  written  to  be  recited,  such  as  the 
Concord  Hymn,  the  Concord  Ode,  and  the  Boston 
Hymn,  which,  being  composed  rhetorically,  are  not 
Emerson's  best  poems.  The  contemplative  poem, 
Voluntaries,  on  the  other  hand,  making  universal 
application  of  a  public  subject,  is  indisputably  of  a 
high  order.  The  idea  of  a  just  destiny  behind  the 
state  is  here  expounded  with  the  spiritual  force  that 
Emerson  so  much  aspired  to  wield. 

Other  poems  of  Emerson's  are  autobiographical, 
sketching,  as  will  be  seen  later,  his  inner  history. 

39 


40  American  Song. 

Outwardly  his  life  was  in  the  main  quiet  and 
uneventful.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  born  in 
Boston,  May  25,  1803,  on  Summer  Street,  then  in  a 
suburban  district.  His  ancestry  included  several 
New  England  ministers  of  more  or  less  eminence. 
From  earliest  boyhood  Emerson  grew  up  under  in 
fluence  favorable  to  study.  Morally  he  was  con 
stantly  and  strongly  influenced  by  his  aunt,  Miss 
Mary  Emerson,  a  serious  woman,  thoughtfully  inter 
ested  in  her  nephew.  In  1817  Emerson  entered 
Harvard  College,  where  he  seems  not  to  have  been 
remarkable  in  general  as  a  scholar,  and  only  barely 
so  in  composition.  Yet  he  read  (more  for  himself 
than  for  his  professors)  a  good  deal  in  the  litera 
ture  not  only  of  the  day  but  of  earlier  times.  After 
graduation  he  taught  for  a  number  of  years  and  later 
preached,  resigning  his  charge  in  1832  and  sailing 
for  Europe,  where  he  remained  about  a  year.  On 
his  return  he  began  his  lecturing,  and  from  1835 
resided  in  Concord  until  his  death,  April  27,  1882. 

As  illustrating  Emerson's  biography,  Good-bye, 
Proud  World,  Berrying,  and  Terminus  are  of  slight 
and  incidental  value.  The  poet  as  a  lover  writes 
To  Ellen,  To  Eva,  The  Amulet,  and  Thine  Eyes  Still 
Shine d.  Only  sad,  serious  subjects,  however,  called 
out  his  richest,  fullest  power,  as  in  the  Dirge  and 
Threnody.  The  development  of  his  character  as  a 
whole  is  reflected  in  other  poems,  also  in  his  journal 
and  in  his  letters.  All  these  data  are  valuable  as 
showing  the  stages  of  growth  in  the  mind  of  a  man 
of  letters.  In  his  attitude  towards  himself,  at 
twenty-one,  he  shows  an  inquiring  spirit,  a  conscious- 


Emerson.  41 

ness  of  his  own  defects,  and  a  distrust  of  his  ability. 
Next,  in  the  series  of  little  pieces  entitled  Nature 
and  Life,  and  constituting  a  further  deliberation,  he 
begins  consciously  high  resolve  and  advances  toward 
nobler  and  nobler  self-possession.  The  course  of 
these  years  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  tales,  though 
fragmentary,  of  the  spiritualizing  of  a  soul.  After 
wards,  in  his  voyage  to  Europe,  his  notes  at  sea  are 
in  a  new  style,  the  lightness  and  the  loveliness  of  his 
prose  beginning  to  come  forth.  Europe  gave  him 
more  than  it  gives  to  many;  if  it  did  not  furnish 
Emerson's  inspiration,  it  prepared  him  to  receive  it. 
Not  long  after  his  return  Emerson  wrote  the 
greater  part  of  his  poems  and  essays,  and  then  it 
was  that  the  woods  and  waters  of  New  England 
began  to  supply  him  with  his  imagery  and  embel 
lishments.  Indeed,  it  is  almost  necessary  to  be  a 
New  Englander  in  order  to  understand  him  ;  and  to 
New  Englanders  his  poems  on  nature  have  appealed 
strongly.  He  combines  the  sharp  observation  of 
the  naturalist  with  the  reverie  of  the  artist  and  the 
idealist.  His  love  of  nature  increasing  as  he  grew 
older,  he  wrote  more  and  with  greater  pains  in  this 
direction.  The  poem,  May-Day,  has  parts  in  it 
in  which  Emerson  is  almost  as  attentive  to  finish  of 
style  as  Milton  is  in  his  Comus.  Both  in  Emerson's 
first  and  in  his  second  volume  hardly  a  poem  on 
nature  can  be  found  but  has  its  distinct  excellence 
of  sentiment  or  description.  The  melody  of  the 
Hiunblc-Bcc,  the  dainty  picture  of  the  Titmouse,  the 
grandeur  and  the  terraces  of  Seashore,  and  Monadnoc, 
the  airy  citadel,  are  not  unusually  striking  by  their 


42  American  Song. 

variety  of  difference.  Occasionally  Emerson  showed 
second  sight,  as  when  Musketaquid  '  symbolizes  to 
him  the  vast,  endless  river  of  the  ages.  He  is  not 
so  much  at  home,  as  in  nature,  in  worldly  themes, 
where  the  Romany  Girl,  with  her  wild  gypsy  grace, 
is  almost  his  only  representative. 

Emerson's  philosophical  poems  aim  to  exhibit 
intellectual  and  moral  truths.  Underlying  each 
poem  and  often  more  suggested  than  expounded,  a 
single  idea  is  given,  not  abstractly,  as  with  most 
philosophers,  but  bodied  forth  by  a  number  of 
examples.  The  subjects  are  taken  from  fields 
widely  distant  in  time  and  space.  As  if  collecting 
material  for  experimenting  in  the  New  World,  Em 
erson  has  drawn  alike  from  the  moderns,  from  the 
classics,  and  from  the  literature  of  the  East.  The 
subject  may  be  a  virtue  (Heroism),  an  idea  with  a 
moral  bearing  (Nemesis),  or  even  an  association  at 
bottom  pagan  (Brahma). 

It  is  a  question  whether  this  poetry  should  be 
judged  by  a  criterion  applied  commonly  at  present : 
that  is,  whether  excellence  here  is  dependent  on  the 
presence  of  matter  "  simple,  sensuous,  impassioned." 3 
A  poem  filled  with  the  kind  of  philosophy  that 
Emerson  treats  of  cannot  perhaps  be  as  simple  as 
most  poetry  is,  and  still  pursue  its  end.  For  phi 
losophy  in  any  form  is  not  easy  to  understand  ;  cer 
tainly  not  for  one  who  is  ignorant  of  its  methods, 
and  who  is  as  indisposed  to  study  them  as  most 

1  Musketaquid,  a  river  of  Concord. 

'"Simple,    sensuous,    impassioned,"— Matthew  Arnold   quoting 
Milton. 


Emerson.  43 

readers  of  poetry  are.  Since,  furthermore,  Emerson's 
philosophical  generalizations  in  verse,  instead  of 
being  expanded  throughout  a  large  volume,  are 
condensed  within  a  small  compass,  it  may  not  be 
reasonable  to  expect  more  than  a  moderate  transfer 
of  the  matter  to  metric  expression. 

On  the  whole  it  may  be  doubted  whether  Emer 
son's  poetry  has  been  over-estimated.  Without 
being  ever  perhaps  a  consummate  artist  throughout 
even  a  short  poem,  Emerson  has  abundant  and  vari 
ous  manifestation  of  the  poetic  spirit.  This  per 
ceived,  one  has  next  to  see  the  ground  of  his 
pre-eminence.  His  admirers  are  wont,  and  rightly, 
to  point  to  the  fanciful  beauty  in  the  opening  lines 
of  the  Ode  at  Concord,  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
Rhodora,  or  to  the  charm  of  the  Humble-Bee :  poems 
carrying  a  certain  aroma  of  intellectual  and  emotional 
suggestiveness  in  single  lines.  Yet  depth  is  more  to 
a  poet's  credit  than  elegance,  and  the  tone  of  a  poem 
more  than  quotable  extracts.  The  greater  forces 
and  qualities,  I  repeat,  lie  in  such  poems  as  have  the 
grandeur  of  Voluntaries,  or  the  indirect  expression  and 
personal  passion  of  the  Threnody :  poems  where  there 
is  real  seriousness,  real  perception  of  the  fundamental 
forces  in  the  world  and  in  man  ;  and  poems  also 
which  distinguish  Emerson  as  him  among  our  poets 
who  most  grows  upon  one  at  the  second  reading. 
Such  an  excellence  can  mean  only  one  thing — that 
in  certain  respects  he  is  the  greatest  American  poet. 

Special  references  :  Emerson's  Poems,  and  May-Day  and  Other 
Pieces;  Cabot's  Memoir  of  Emerson  ;  Holmes's  Emerson,  "Ameri 
can  Men  of  Letters  "  Series  (the  chapter  on  Emerson's  poetry), — 
Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co. 


44  American  Song. 

GIVE  ALL  TO  LOVE. 

Give  all  to  love  ; 

Obey  thy  heart ; 

Friends,  kindred,  days, 

Estate,  good-fame, 

Plans,  credit,  and  the  muse, — 

Nothing  refuse. 

'T  is  a  brave  master 
Let  it  have  scope  ; 
Follow  it  utterly, 
Hope  beyond  hope  ; 
High  and  more  high 
It  dives  l  into  noon, 

With  wing  unspent, 

Untold  intent  ; 

But  it  is  a  god, 

Knows  its  own  path 

And  the  outlets  of  the  sky. 

It  was  never  for  the  mean  ; 

It  requireth  courage  stout. 

Souls  above  doubt, 
Valor  unbending, 
It  will  reward, — 
They  shall  return 
More  than  they  were, 
And  ever  ascending. 

Leave  all  for  love  ; 
Yet,  hear  me,  yet, 

1  Dives.     What  is  the  meaning  of  the  word  here? 


Emerson.  45 

One  word  more  thy  heart  behoved, 
One  pulse  more  of  vain  endeavor, — 
Keep  thee  to-day, 
To-morrow,  forever, 
Free  as  an  Arab 
Of  thy  beloved. 

Cling  with  life  to  the  maid, 

But  when  the  surprise, 

First  vague  shadow  of  surmise 

Flits  across  her  bosom  young, 

Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee, 

Free  be  she,  fancy-free  ; 

Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's  hem, 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 

From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 

As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 

Though  her  parting  dims  the  day, 

Stealing  grace  from  all  alive  ; 

Heartily  know, 

When  half-gods  go, 

The  gods  arrive. 

CHARACTER. 

The  sun  set,  but  set  not  his  hope  ; 
Stars  rose  ;  his  faith  was  earlier  up : 
Fixed  on  the  enormous  galaxy, 
Deeper  and  older  seemed  his  eye  ; 
And  matched  his  sufferance  sublime 
The  taciturnity  of  time. 


46  American  Song. 

He  spoke,  and  words  more  soft  than  rain 
Brought  the  age  of  gold  again  : 
His  action  won  such  reverence  sweet 
As  hid  all  m^sure  of  the  feat. 


HERI,  HODIE,  CRAS.1 

Shines  the  last  age,  the  next  with  hope  is  seen, 
To-day  slinks  poorly  off  unmarked  between  ; 
Future  or  past  no  richer  secret  folds, 
O  friendless  present !  than  thy  bosom  holds. 

1  Heri,  Hodie,  Cras,  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


As  the  author  of  The  Raven  and  the  prose  tales, 
Poe  not  only  holds  a  permanent  place  in  American 
literature,  but  is  widely  read  in  Europe,  particularly 
by  the  French.  Among  other  single  poems  by  Poe, 
many  are  unique  in  conception  and  in  art.  That  he 
showed  unusual  keenness  while  criticising  contem 
porary  literature  may  also  be  perceived. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  born  in  Boston,  January  19, 
1809.  His  mother  was  of  distinguished  talent  on  the 
stage.  On  his  father's  side  Poe  was  a  grandson  of 
General  David  Poe,  an  ardent  patriot  in  the  Revolu 
tion.  Both  parents  dying  before  he  was  three  years 
old,  he  was  adopted  by  a  Mr.  John  Allan,  who 
greatly  indulged  him  during  his  boyhood,  and  who 
in  1816  placed  Poe  in  school  for  five  years  at  Stoke 
Newington,  England,  among  antique  and  picturesque 
surroundings.  The  intricate  construction  of  the 
house  where  Poe  attended  and  the  venerableness  of 
the  village  are  described  in  the  author's  tale,  William 
Wilson.  In  1822  he  continued  his  education  at 
Richmond,  Virginia,  seeing  there  for  the  first  time 
his  friend,  Mrs.  Stannard,  who  assumed  in  his  mind 

47 


48  American  Song. 

the  position  of  an  ideal  love,  and  in  memory  of  whom 
he  wrote  the  short  poem  To  Helen  beginning 

"  Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me," 

and  published  in  his  third  volume  of  verse.  In  1826 
he  entered  the  University  of  Virginia,  where  he 
studied  Greek,  Latin,  French,  Italian,  and  Spanish, 
although  more  proficient  in  the  second  and  the 
third. 

The  two  periods  of  imitation  and  originality  arc 
well  marked  in  Foe's  poetic  production.  In  the  first 
period,  Tamerlane,  published  in  1827,  shows  the  in 
fluence  of  Byron  ;  and  Al  Aaraaf,  two  years  later, 
that  of  Moore.  These  and  Politian,  which  appeared 
several  years  afterwards,  are  Foe's  only  long  poems. 

To  the  River  -  — ,  in  the  collection  headed  by 
Al  Aaraaf,  is  clear  and  suggestive  in  its  language, 
and  gives  sign  of  the  power  in  the  volume  of  1831, 
in  which  appeared  several  poems  in  a  form  subse 
quently  changed,  such  as  Israfel,  which  in  its  tone 
of  high  confidence  stands  by  itself  among  Foe's 
works  ;  and  The  Pcean,  which  later  became  Lcnore 
with  its  almost  perfect  lines — 

"  Let  no  bell  toll  ; — lest  her  sweet  soul, 

Amid  its  hallowed  mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note  as  it  doth  float — 
Unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within  the  Heaven  ; — 
From  grief  and  groan  to  a  golden  throne 

Beside  the  King  of  Heaven." 

Foe  was   soon  busied   in   editorial  work  in   New 


Poe. 


49 


York,  then  in  Philadelphia,  and  later  at  Rich 
mond,  where,  May  16,  1836,  he  married  his  cousin, 
Virginia  Clemm. 

During  this  period  his  poems  were  published 
singly.  In  The  Conqueror  Worm,  Poe  is  not  merely 
sombre,  but  tragic.  The  Raven,  if  not  the  most 
admirable,  is  the  most  celebrated  American  poem. 
While  others  of  their  creator's  works  are  strongly 
marked  by  compression  and  individuality,  The  Raven 
has  these  to  a  surpassing  degree.  It  has  also  the 
fineness  of  rhythm  of  The  Bells,  the  weirdness  of 
The  City  by  the  Sea,  The  Haunted  Palace,  or  the 
tales,  the  beauty  of  the  succeeding  lyrics,  and  vivid 
ness,  composition,  and  elegance  of  its  own. 

In  the  period  reaching  from  the  death  of  Mrs.  Poe, 
January  30,  1847,  till  his  own  death,  October  7, 
1849,  P°e  produced  several  of  his  best  poems.  He 
seems  here  to  have  increased  the  progress  towards 
sincerity  with  which  poetically  he  proceeded  all 
through  life.  Eulalie  is  a  picture  of  his  affection  for 
his  wife ;  To  My  Mother,  an  expression  of  his  debt 
to  Mrs.  Clemm,  his  wife's  mother.  The  Bells,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  an  exhibition  of  technical  skill  in  versi 
fication.  Among  the  rest,  To  Helen,  addressed  to 
Mrs.  Whitman,  and  beginning 

"  I  saw  thee  once — once  only — years  ago — " 

is  in  fancy  and  high-strung  emotion  one  of  the 
highest  points  ever  attained  by  Poe,  a  poem  in  which 
the  least  mistake  or  insincerity  would  have  made  it 
a  failure.  The  incident  described  is  said  to  have  had 


50  American  Song. 

its  foundation  in  his  having  seen  her  walking  in  the 
moonlight  among  the  roses  of  her  garden. 

It  is  right  and  it  is  time  to  throw  a  veil  over  Poe's 
faults.  As  to  his  virtues,  he  was  strongest  on  the 
intellectual  side.  Not  only  was  his  patience  in 
literary  labor  of  immense  value  to  himself  in  his  art, 
but  his  fearlessness  in  criticism  has  been  a  service  to 
American  literature. 

To  appreciate  Poe,  the  imagination  requires  either 
distance  of  time  or  independence  of  attitude.  It 
may,  however,  be  observed  that  the  interest  attach 
ing  to  his  poetry  is  strictly  of  the  personal  and 
private  kind.  Yet  if  apart  from  TJie  Raven,  Poe  was 
the  least  of  the  greater  American  poets,  except  as 
to  form,  in  which  he  was  careful  exceedingly,  who 
would  affirm  that  in  his  originality  as  well  as  in 
clearness  and  execution  he  was  inferior  to  any  par 
ticular  poet  who  wrote  later? 

Poe's  tales  are,  among  short  prose  works,  at  the 
head  of  American  fiction  ;  and  are  inferior  only  to 
the  more  sustained  romances  of  Hawthorne.  In  his 
essays  Poe  is  best  as  a  critic  "of  poetry.  He  did  not 
excel  as  a  philosophical  theorist  ;  for  he  had  neither 
the  kind  of  genius  nor  the  training  requisite.  But  it 
is  well  to  note  the  frequent  agreement  between  his 
obiter  dicta  when  he  gave  critical  judgments  on  litera 
ture  and  the  views  in  Mr.  Stedman's  excellent  Poets 
of  America;  and  also  to  test  Poe's  conclusions  by 
attentive  study  of  the  authors  he  criticised.  Among 
the  numerous  examples  of  Poe's  correctness  are  his 
brief  characterization  of  Bryant's  Watcrfoiul  ;  the 
comparison  between  Bryant  and  Longfellow,  with 


Poe.  51 

the  general  criticism  on  other  authors  that  suggests 
itself ;  and  again  the  enthusiastic  comment  upon 
Hawthorne. 

For  a  view  of  Poe  from  all  sides,  in  addition  to 
Mr.  Stedman's  chapter  on  Poe  in  the  Poets  of 
America,  for  the  literary  aspect  Lowell's  powerfully 
analytical  essay,  prefixed  to  the  complete  authorized 
edition  of  Poe's  works,  ought  to  be  read  ;  and  for  the 
biography  several  books  in  the  case  of  this  author. 
For  the  facts,  Woodberry's  Life  of  Poe  (Houghton, 
Mifflin,  &  Co.),  a  work  of  special  research,  is  the  best. 
Ingram's  is  also  worth  reading,  as  giving  the  more 
favorable  side  of  Poe's  character ;  or  Gill's,  but  this, 
while  it  has  a  table  of  contents,  is  not  indexed. 

TO  THE  RIVER  . 


Fair  river  !  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow 
Of  crystal,  wandering  water, 

Thou  art  an  emblem  of  the  glow 

Of  beauty — the  unhidden  heart — 
The  playful  magazines  of  art 

In  old  Alberto's  daughter  ; 

But  when  within  thy  wave  she  looks — 
Which  glistens  then,  and  trembles- 
Why,  then,  the  prettiest  of  brooks 
Her  worshipper  resembles  ; 
For  in  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her  image  deeply  lies — 
His  heart  which  trembles  at  the  beams 
Of  her  soul-searching  eyes. 


52  American  Song. 

LENORE. 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl  !  the  spirit  flown  forever  ! 
Let  the  bell  toll !  a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the  Stygian 

river  ; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear  ? — weep  now  or 

never  more  ! 
See  !  on  yon  drear  and  rigid    bier   low    lies    thy  love 

Lenore  ! 
Come  !  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — the  funeral  song  be 

sung ! — 
An  anthem    for   the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so 

young — 
A   dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so 

young. 

"  Wretches  !  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated  her 

for  her  pride, 
And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her  that 

she  died  ! 
How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read  ? — the  requiem  how 

be  sung 
By  you — by  yours,  the  evil  eye, — by  yours,  the  slanderous 

tongue, 
That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died  so 

young  ? 

"  Peccaviimis  ;  but  rave  not  thus  !  and  let  a  Sabbath  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong  ! 
The  sweet  Lenore  hath  '  gone  before,'  with  Hope,  that 

flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have 

been  thy  bride — 
For  her,  the  fair  and  ctibonnaire,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 


Poe. 


53 


The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within  her  eyes — 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair — the  death  upon  her 
eyes. 

"  Avaunt  !  to-night  ray  heart  is  light.     No  dirge  will  I 

upraise, 

But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean  of  old  days  ! 
Let  no  bell  toll !  lest  her  sweet  soul,  amid  its  hallowed 

mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note,    as   it  doth   float   up   from  the 

damned  earth, 
To  friends  above,  from  fiends  below,  the  indignant  ghost 

is  riven — 

From  hell  unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within  the  Heaven — 
From  grief  and   groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  the 

King  of  Heaven." 

TO  HELEN. 

I  saw  thee  once — once  only — years  ago  ; 

I  must  not  say  how  many — but  not  many. 

It  was  a  July  midnight  ;  and  from  out 

A  full-orbed  moon,  that,  like  thine  own  soul,  soaring, 

Sought  a  precipitate  pathway  up  through  heaven, 

There  fell  a  silvery-silken  veil  of  light, 

With  quietude,  and  sultriness,  and  slumber, 

Upon  the  upturn'd  faces  of  a  thousand 

Roses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 

Where  no  winds  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tiptoe — 

Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  those  roses 

That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 

Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death — 

Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  those  roses 

That  smiled  and  died  in  this  parterre,  enchanted 


54  American  Song. 

By  thee  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 

Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 

I  saw  thee  half  reclining  ;  while  the  moon 

Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  the  roses, 

And  on  thine  own,  upturned — alas,  in  sorrow  ! 


Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  July  midnight — 

Was  it  not  Fate  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow), 

That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gate, 

To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering  roses  ? 

No  foot-step  stirred  :  the  hated  world  all  slept, 

Save  only  thee  and  me.     (Oh,  Heaven  ! — oh,  God  ! 

How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  those  two  words  !) 

Save  only  thee  and  me.     I  paused — I  looked — 

And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared. 

(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted  !) 

The  pearly  lustre  of  the  moon  went  out  : 

The  mossy  banks  and  the  meandering  paths, 

The  happy  flowers  and  repining  trees, 

Were  seen  no  more  ;  the  very  roses'  odors 

Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs. 

All — all  expired  save  thee — save  less  than  thou : 

Save  only  the  divine  light  in  thine  eyes — 

Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 

I  saw  but  them — they  were  the  world  to  me. 

I  saw  but  them — saw  only  them  for  hours — 

Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  down. 

What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  enwritten 

Upon  those  crystalline,  celestial  spheres  ! 

How  dark  a  woe  !  yet  how  sublime  a  hope  ! 

How  silently  serene  a  sea  of  pride  ! 

How  daring  an  ambition  !  yet  how  deep — 

How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love  ! 


Poe.  55 

But  now,  at  length,  dear  Dian  sank  from  sight, 

Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud  ; 

And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 

Didst  glide  away.     Only  thine  eyes  remained. 

They  would  not  go — they  never  yet  have  gone. 

Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night, 

They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have)  since. 

They  follow  me — they  lead  me  through  the  years — 

They  are  my  ministers — yet  I  their  slave. 

Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle — 

My  duty,  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 

And  purified  by  their  electric  fire, 

And  sanctified  in  their  elysian  fire. 

They  fill  my  soul  with  Beauty  (which  is  Hope), 

And  are  far  up  in  Heaven — the  stars  I  kneel  to 

In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night  ; 

While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 

I  see  them  still — two  sweetly  scintillant 

Venuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun  ! 


JONES  VERY. 


It  would  be  a  mistake,  it  is  believed,  to  class  Very, 
as  some  may  have  classed  him,  among  minor  or  ob 
scure  poets ;  for  it  would  be  to  neglect  alike  the 
quality  of  his  inspiration  and  the  tone  of  his  diction. 
Yet  to  make  this  affirmation  alone  would  not  be  suf 
ficient.  We  have  much  reason  to  think  that  in 
greatness  as  well  as  in  completeness  of  sincerity,  the 
poems  of  Very  may  be  taken  as  those  of  one  of  the 
chief  American  poets. 

Very's  outward  life,  while  honorable,  was  unevent 
ful.  Jones  Very  was  born  at  Salem,  Massachusetts, 
August  28,  1813.  In  his  boyhood  he  accompanied 
his  father,  a  shipmaster,  on  voyages  to  New  Orleans 
and  to  Cronstadt.  Having  entered  Harvard  in  1834, 
he  was  graduated  in  1836,  and  was  appointed  tutor 
in  Greek,  where  he  was  highly  esteemed  as  a  teacher. 
Meantime  he  studied  in  the  Divinity  School.  His 
best  literary  work  was  produced  at  this  time.  After 
wards,  in  1838,  he  retired  to  Salem.  A  volume  con 
taining  poems  and  three  essays  from  him  appeared 
in  1839.  Throughout  his  life  among  those  who 
knew  and  understood  him  he  commanded  the  high 
est  respect.  After  quiet  days  he  died  May  8,  1880. 

56 


Very. 


57 


Very  has  received  a  rarer  and  nobler  recognition 
than  popularity  ;  men  of  genius  have  concurred  in 
praising  him.  In  respect  to  his  poems  and  the  voice 
that  speaks  in  them,  Bryant,  Emerson,  and  Haw 
thorne  have  each  paid  positive  tribute. 

The  mind  from  which  Very's  poetry  came  was  of 
an  unusual  order,  and  one  that  cannot  be  judged 
without  special  study,  though  the  poetry  of  that 
mind  may  be  enjoyed.  He  was  one  of  those  few 
Americans  (perhaps  the  only  American)  for  whom 
religious  contemplation  is  everything  ;  and  one  of 
those  mortals  to  whom  above  others  is,  in  spiritual 
things,  granted  the  clearest  vision.  Such  a  man,  as  we 
know  with  regard  to  oriental  mystics,  with  whom  con 
ditions  are  more  favorable  for  solitary,  rapt  meditation 
than  in  America,  naturally  and  rightly  regards  him 
self  as  a  teacher  of  divine  truth,  and  an  exposer  of 
worldly  pretension  and  sin  ;  in  America  less  natu 
rally  but  not  less  rightly,  this  was  the  case  with 
Very. 

Very's  religion,  however,  was  at  its  best  and 
strongest  in  his  poems.  There  his  mysticism  takes 
a  wide  range.  With  reverence  toward  God  is  min 
gled  a  joy  in  the  presence  of  nature,  a  love  of  beauty, 
and  a  deep  perception  and  firm  reproval  of  sin. 

Thus  there  is  something  in  Very  which  makes  him 
different  from  the  other  American  poets.  Not  that 
his  gift  is  inferior  to  theirs  ;  on  the  contrary,  a  per 
fect  vision  of  eternal  things  is  the  truest  and  most 
excellent  poetry  that  can  exist.  It  is  only  necessary 
to  compare  Very  with  the  others  to  perceive  that  he 
has  also  a  distinct  individuality  on  the  side  of  char- 


58  American  Song. 

acter.  He  has,  for  example,  greater  reverence  than 
Emerson ;  and  a  purpose  more  single  than  Long 
fellow's. 

Very's  thought  is  not  usually  difficult  of  appre 
hension  for  any  one  in  the  proper  mood  ' ;  though 
he  is  never  superficial,  and  his  exact  meaning  cannot 
be  always  seen  without  close  attention  and  without 
reflection.  He  may  be  called  an  eternal  poet  in  the 
sense  that  he  treats  of  the  divine  state  to  which 
mankind  will  always  aspire  rather  than  they  will 
outgrow. 

Special  reference :  Very1  s  Poems,  edited  by  James  Freeman 
Clarke.  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co. 


THE  SILENT. 

There  is  a  sighing  in  the  wood, 
A  murmur  in  the  beating  wave, 

The  heart  has  never  understood 

To  tell  in  words  the  thoughts  they  gave. 

Yet  oft  it  feels  an  answering  tone, 

When  wandering  on  the  lonely  shore  ; 

And  could  the  lips  its  voice  make  known, 
'T  would  sound  as  does  the  ocean's  roar. 

And  oft  beneath  the  wind-swept  pine 
Some  chord  is  struck  the  strain  to  swell  ; 

Nor  sounds  nor  language  can  define, — 
'T  is  not  for  words  or  sounds  to  tell. 

1  The  reader  should  instead  doubt  his  own  fitness. 


Very. 


59 


'T  is  all  unheard,  that  Silent  Voice, 
Whose  goings  forth,  unknown  to  all, 

Bids  bending  reed  and  bird  rejoice, 
And  fills  with  music  Nature's  hall. 

And  in  the  speechless  human  heart 

It  speaks  where'er  man's  feet  have  trod, 

Beyond  the  lips'  deceitful  art, 
To  tell  of  Him,  the  Unseen  God. 

THE   RIVER. 

Oh  !  swell  my  bosom  deeper  with  thy  love, 

That  I  some  river's  widening  mouth  may  be  ; 
And  ever  on,  for  many  a  mile  above, 

May  flow  the  floods  that  enter  from  thy  sea  ; 
And  may  they  not  retreat  as  tides  of  earth, 

Save  but  to  flow  from  Thee  that  they  have  flown, 
Soon  may  my  spirit  find  that  better  birth, 

Where  the  retiring  wave  is  never  known  ; 
But  Thou  dost  flow  through  every  channel  wide, 

With  all  a  Father's  love  in  every  soul  ; 
A  stream  that  knows  no  ebb,  a  swelling  tide 

That  rolls  forever  on  and  finds  no  goal, 
Till  in  the  hearts  of  all  shall  opened  be 
The  ocean  depths  of  thine  eternity. 

YOURSELF. 

'T  is  to  yourself  I  speak  ;  you  cannot  know 
Him  whom  I  call  in  speaking  such  a  one, 

For  you  beneath  the  earth  lie  buried  low, 
Which  he  alone  as  living  walks  upon  : 


60  American  Song. 

You  may  at  times  have  heard  him  speak  to  you, 

And  often  wished  perchance  that  you  were  he  ; 
And  I  must  ever  wish  that  it  were  true, 

For  then  you  could  hold  fellowship  with  me  ; 
But  now  you  hear  us  talk  as  strangers,  met 

Above  the  room  wherein  you  lie  abed  ; 
A  word  perhaps  loud  spoken  you  may  get, 

Or  hear  our  feet  when  heavily  they  tread  ; 
But  he  who  speaks,  or  him  who  's  spoken  to, 
Must  both  remain  as  strangers  still  to  you. 

NATURE. 

Nature  !  my  love  for  thee  is  deeper  far 

Than  strength  of  words,  though  spirit-born,  can  tell 
For  while  I  gaze  they  seem  my  soul  to  bar, 

That  in  thy  widening  streams  would  onward  swell, 
Bearing  thy  mirrored  beauty  on  its  breast, — 

Now  through  thy  lonely  haunts  unseen  to  glide, 
A  motion  that  scarce  knows  itself  from  rest, 

With  pictured  flowers  and  branches  on  its  tide  ; 
Then  by  the  noisy  city's  frowning  wall, 

Whose  armed  heights  within  its  waters  gleam, 
To  rush  with  answering  voice  to  ocean's  call, 

And  mingle  with  the  deep  its  swollen  stream, 
Whose  boundless  bosom's  calm  alone  can  hold 
That  heaven  of  glory  in  thy  skies  unrolled. 

THE  TREES  OF  LIFE. 

For  those  who  worship  Thee  there  is  no  death, 
For  all  they  do  is  but  with  Thee  to  dwell  : 

Now  while  I  take  from  Thee  this  passing  breath, 
It  is  but  of  thy  glorious  name  to  tell ; 


Very. 


61 


Nor  words  nor  measured  sounds  have  I  to  find, 

But  in  them  both  my  soul  doth  ever  flow  ; 
They  come  as  viewless  as  the  unseen  wind, 

And  tell  thy  noiseless  steps  where'er  I  go  ; 
The  trees  that  grow  along  thy  living  stream, 

And  from  its  springs  refreshment  ever  drink, 
Forever  glittering  in  thy  morning  beam 

They  bend  them  o'er  the  river's  grassy  brink, 
And,  as  more  high  and  wide  their  branches  grow, 
They  look  more  fair  within  the  depths  below. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Longfellow  has  added  the  sense  of  fancy  to 
American  life.  As  a  poet  he  is  distinguished  in 
American  literature  for  imagination  in  his  literary 
treatment  and  for  largeness  and  skill  in  the  framing 
of  his  ideas  and  pictures.  At  the  time  he  wrote  he 
cast  his  seed  into  a  warm,  moist  soil  already  fertil 
ized  by  previous  literary  efforts.  As  a  man  his  life 
is  full  of  charm  and  of  suggestiveness  for  study.1 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  was  born  at  Port 
land,  Maine,  February  22,  1807.  His  father  was  a 
man  much  honored  in  the  state  ;  it  was  from  his 
mother  that  he  inherited  a  taste  for  romance."  In 
his  home  he  had  access  to  Shakespeare,  Milton, 
Thomson,  Goldsmith,  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets, 
Plutarch's  Lives  and  the  like.  "  As  a  boy  he  was  of 
a  tender,  sensitive  disposition,"  but  was  also  "  the 
sunlight  of  the  house."  a 

1  His  biography  by  his  brother,  Rev.  Samuel  Longfellow,  has 
merit  not  only  for  authenticity,  but  for  the  fulness  with  which  we  see 
the  personality  and  the  humanity  of  the  most  lovable  of  American 
characters. 

*  While  he  was  in  college  he  corresponded  with  his  mother  on  the 
subject  of  Gray's  Odes,  for  instance,  expressing  his  admiration  of 
them.  In  reply  she  stated  her  own  poetical  opinions  and  observa 
tions. — Life,  vol.  i.,  pp.  29-32. 

8  For  a  glimpse  of  his  home  in  childhood,  see  ibid,  vol.  i.,  pp.  14,  15. 

62 


Longfellow.  63 

In  1821  he  entered  Bowdoin,  where,  in  his  observ 
ance  of  regular  study  and  in  his  pursuit  of  general 
literature,  he  seems  to  have  been  one  of  those  who 
have  the  strength  and  poise  for  success  both  in  duty 
and  in  ambition. 

Graduating  in  1825,  he  spent  from  1826  to  1829 
travelling  and  studying  in  continental  Europe  ;  was 
professor  of  modern  languages  at  Bowdoin  from 
1829  to  1835  ;  and  after  another  year  abroad,  occu 
pied  the  same  position  at  Harvard  from  1835  till 
1856. 

Longfellow's  earlier  poems,  which  were  written  be 
fore  he  was  nineteen,  show  the  influence  of  Bryant, 
but  no  sign  of  his  own  later  power,  his  rich  nature 
requiring  the  favor  of  many  literary  conditions  and 
of  much  stimulus  before  it  would  fully  come  forth  ; 
for  a  dozen  years  he  wrote  not  a  single  original  poem. 

In  1833  Longfellow  published  his  stately  transla 
tion  of  the  Coplas  of  Manrique,  who  was  one  of  a 
number  of  modern  poets  Longfellow  handled  in  a 
similar  way.  In  1835  he  put  forth  Outre  Mer,  a  suc 
cession  of  papers  having  a  general  resemblance  to 
Irving's  Sketch-Book,1  but  by  the  thread  of  their 
narrative  connected  more  closely  together. 

Four  years  later  appeared  Hyperion,  a  second 
prose  romance,  which  was  strongly  suggestive  of  the 
interest  in  German  literature  then  becoming  active. 
From  this  source,  and  from  his  study  of  the  Greek 
poets,  is  partly  due  the  inspiration  of  Longfellow's 
poems  Flowers,  A  Psalm  of  Life,  and  others  in  the 

1  Longfellow,  while  writing  the  Hyperion  had  this  resemblance  in 
mind.  The  Sketch-Book  was  also  Longfellow's  first  favorite  volume. 


64  American  Song. 

Voices  of  the  Night,  which  was  published,  like  Hy 
perion,  in  1839. 

Longfellow's  first  truly  poetical  inspiration  did  not 
find  him  unprepared.  His  early  modest  sense  of 
immaturity  and  littleness  before  the  great  works 
upon  which  he  had  for  several  years  been  musing, 
had  led  him  to  sympathetic  study.  Now,  in  1839, 
he  had  his  materials  ready  and  his  sensibilities 
trained.  If  he  wanted  anything  from  foreign  litera 
ture  to  aid  him  in  the  composition  of  a  poem,  he 
knew  readily  where  he  could  find  what  he  desired. 
He  had  also  acquired  taste,  appreciation,  a  sense 
of  proportion,  a  true  perception  of  the  beautiful, 
and  unusual  technical  skill.  Accordingly,  from 
the  Voices  of  the  Night  on,  his  works  flowed  from 
him  easily  and  increased  rapidly  in  strength  and 
variety,  for  he  had  then  merely  to  perform  that 
difficult  literary  function  which  deals  with  the  con 
crete  expression  of  the  beautiful,  or  in  its  higher 
form  with  the  harmonious  creating  and  proportion 
ing  which  constitutes  imagination. 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  the  outcome  of  about  two 
years'  brooding  and  painstaking,  was  a  long  step 
forward.  Still  more  reproductive  of  the  old  ballad 
is  the  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus.  About  the  same  time 
came  the  popular  Village  Blacksmith.  Among 
others  of  about  the  same  date,  The  Slave  Singing  at 
Midnight  has  an  unconscious  power  of  outspoken 
ness  ;  The  Spanish  Student,  a  play,  is  the  most 
ambitious  of  Longfellow's  writings  up  to  this  time  '  ; 

1  Note,  however,  the  pleasing  and  graceful  scene  between  Vittorio 
and  Preciosa. 


Longfellow.  65 

and  The  Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The  Bridge,  and 
The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs  are,  each  in  their  own 
way,  of  conspicuous  merit. 

In  1847,  with  Evangeline,  Longfellow's  first  suc 
cessful  poem  which  was  written  in  hexameter  verse, 
he  sounded  a  deeper  and  more  sustained  pathos 
than  ever  before.  Kavanagh,  in  1849,  a  Prose  tale, 
containing  an  occasional  note  of  gentle  satire,1  is 
a  series  of  pleasant  pictures  of  New  England  life 
and  sentiment  half  a  century  ago.  Shorter  poems 
with  subjects  well  treated  are  The  Building  of 
the  Ship,  The  Light-House,  and  The  Fire  of  Drift- 
Wood. 

In  1851,  Longfellow  published  The  Golden  Legend, 
the  first  of  the  trilogy,  the  CJiristus,  on  which  he 
labored  from  the  time  of  its  first  conception  for 
over  thirty  years.2  The  Golden  Legend  on  a  sacred 
theme  continues  the  strain  of  pathos  shown  by 
Longfellow  in  Evangeline,  and  deals  with  the  spirit 
of  Christianity  as  revealed  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

The  Song  of  Hiawatha,  in  1855,  has  been  called 
America's  first  contribution  to  world  literature.  In 
this  poem,  Longfellow,  having  perceived  the  poetic 
capabilities  of  the  Indian  legends,  welded  them 
into  a  whole,  the  life  of  which  is  quickened  by 
invention  of  his  own.  A  breath  of  nature  passes 
over  the  pages,  and  the  public  attention  hitherto 
paid  to  the  mechanism  and  commonplace  narratives 


1  Such  as  the  exquisite  Chapter  XX.,  with  its  caricature  in  the  per 
sonage,  Hathaway,  and  with  the  suggestive  truth  of  its  discussion. 

2  1841-1873. 

5 


66  American  Song. 

of  the  poem  may  well  be  turned  to  the  higher  flights 
of  fancy  and  imagination.1 

In  1846,  Longfellow,  while  visiting  Portland, 
meditated  a  poem  on  his  old  home,  and  nine  years 
later  wrote  My  Lost  Youth.  A  little  later  came  The 
Children's  Hour,  Paul  Revere  s  Ride,  and  the  fine 
lyric,  The  Bells  of  Lynn. 

The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  in  1858,  is  a  well- 
told  and  very  life-like  story  in  hexameters.  An 
excellent,  serious  shorter  poem  of  about  the  same 
time  is  the  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Longfellow's  translation  of  the  Divine  Comedy, 
which  appeared  several  years  later,  is  the  best 
English  version.  Not  only  is  the  original  rendered 
line  for  line,  but  the  translation  itself  has  a  poetic 
charm  thrown  around  it. 

The  New  England  Tragedies,  in  1869,  made  up  the 
second  part  issued  of  Longfellow's  sacred  trilogy. 
The  first  of  these  two  pathetic  plays  images  the  per 
secution  of  the  Quakers  by  Endicott,  who  was  him 
self  in  the  power  of  the  harsh  superstition  which  was 
part  of  his  creed.  In  the  second  tragedy,  it  is  the 
fear  of  witchcraft  which  moves  men  to  sacrifice  their 
victims.  Two  years  later,  the  third  part  of  the 
trilogy,  The  Divine  Tragedy,  narrated  in  verse  the 
story  of  the  gospels,  drawing  from  these  the  words 
of  Christus,  but  imagining  those  of  the  minor  per 
sonages.  Among  Longfellow's  best  subsequent 
poems  are  The  Four  Lakes  of  Madison  and  The 
Leap  of  Roushan  Beg.  Michael  Angela,  a  long  poem, 

1  To  the  beautiful  description,  for  example,  of  the  combat  between 
Hiawatha  and  Mudjekeewis. 


Longfellow.  67 

has  a  spirituality  as  noble  and  impassioned  as  any 
poem  in  American  literature.  Longfellow  died  March 
24,  1882. 

Longfellow's  greatest  works,  Evangeline,  Hia- 
voatlia,  and  The  New  England  Tragedies,  and  among 
shorter  poems  The  Skeleton  in  Armor  and  The  Wreck 
of  the  Hesperus,  are  on  American  subjects.  Yet  his 
greatness  over  the  other  poets  of  this  country  is  that 
he  has  interested,  not  this  nation  alone,  but  man 
kind. 

Special  references  :  Longfellow's  Poetical  Works  ;  Longfellow's 
Life,  edited  by  Rev.  S.  Longfellow.  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co. 


THE   SKELETON   IN  ARMOR.1 

"  Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ? " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 

1  The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  found  at  the  ruins  of  the  round  tower  at 
Newport,  R.  I. 


68  American  Song. 

Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 
From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  viking  old  ! 

My  deeds  though  manifold, 

No  Skald '  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga2  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  ; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon  ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 
Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  3  crew, 

1  Skald,  an  ancient  Scandinavian  bard. 
1  Saga,  an  ancient  heroic  Scandinavian  tale.  3  Corsair,  a  pirate. 


Longfellow.  69 


O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led  ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"  Many  a  wassail-bout ' 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender  ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade, 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest, 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 
1  Wassail-bout,  a  drinking  bout. 


70  American  Song. 


"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory  ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 


Longfellow.  71 

Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 
With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw,1 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter  ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel ; 

Through  the  black  water  ! 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 

1  Skaiv,  a  promontory. 


72  American  Song. 

Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward  ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which  to  this  very  hour. 
Stands  looking  seaward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears  ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother  ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another. 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful  ! 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended  ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland  !  skoal! 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 
1  Skoal,  "  an  exclamation  of  good  wishes." 


Longfellow.  73 

MY  LOST  YOUTH. 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town  ' 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea  ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still, 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides  ' 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 
And  Spanish  sailors 3  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still  : 

1  Town,  Portland,  Maine. 

5  Hesperides,  islands  and  gardens  referred  to  by  the  ancients,  and 
located  to  the  west  of  them.  See  Anthon's  Class.  Diet.,  Hesperides 
and  Hesperidum  Insulcc. 

3  Spanish  sailors,  engaged  in  the  trade  from  the  West  Indies. 


74  American  Song. 

"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 
And  the  dead  captains  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  woods  ; 
And  the  friendships  old,  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


Longfellow.  75 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain  ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong 

heart  weak, 

And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well- 
known  street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


76  American  Song. 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 


DANTE. 

Tuscan,1  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of  gloom, 
With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic  eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arise, 

Like  Farinata"  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom  ; 
Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 

The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume  ! 

Methinks  I  see  thee  stand,  with  pallid  cheeks, 
By  Fra  Hilario  3  in  his  diocese, 

As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 

The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease  ; 

And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 
Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers,  "  Peace  !  " 

1  Tuscan,  Florence,  Dante's  birthplace,  is  in  Tuscany. 

2  Farinata,  a  nobleman  of  Florence  placed  by  Dante  in  his  Inferno 
in  a  red-hot  coffin. 

3  Fra  Hilario.     See  Leigh  Hunt's  account  of  Dante's  errand. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


Like  Longfellow,  Lowell  represents  not  alone 
the  country  which  was  his  birth-place  and  the  life  of 
which  he  reflects ;  he  also  embodies  a  continuation 
of  the  spirit  of  the  literature  whose  tongue  he  spoke, 
though  his  best  topics  touch  American  soil,  or 
appeal  to  American  hearts,  as  in  the  Biglow  Papers 
and  the  Harvard  Commemoration  Ode. 

James  Russell  Lowell  was  born  in  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  February  22,  1819.  From  his  an 
cestry  his  mental  inheritance  comprised  both  intel 
lectual  strength  and  the  light  grace  of  fancy.  His 
grandfather,  Judge  John  Lowell,  won  public  respect 
and  confidence ;  his  father,  Rev.  Dr.  Charles  Lowell, 
studied  in  the  universities  of  two  worlds1  and  was 
the  writer  of  several  works  ;  and  his  mother  brought 
Lowell  up  in  her  own  love  of  language  and  of  the 
old  ballads."  Furthermore,  at  Lowell's  home  there 
was  a  large  and  choice  library  of  modern  master 
pieces,  which  he  not  only  read  extensively,  but, 
what  is  rarer,  knew  how  to  assimilate  the  parts  that 
concerned  himself. 

1  Harvard  and  Edinburgh.     Study  abroad  was  not  common  then. 

2  It  is  said  that  she  sang  them  over  the  cradles  of  her  children. 

77 


78  American  Song. 

Lowell  was  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1838.  Three 
years  later  he  published  his  first  volume  of  poems, 
A  Years  Life,  and  in  1844  a  second  volume.  All 
the  pieces  from  these  two  volumes  which  their 
author  preserved  have  their  respective  merit :  such 
poems  as  Lowell's  love  songs,  his  descriptions  of 
nature,  and  his  Ode,  in  which  a  mightier  purpose 
emerges,  and  which  in  better  and  stronger  fulfilment  is 
found  later  transfigured  in  the  Commemoration  Ode. 
Freedom  is  the  sincerest  poem,  at  least  before  the 
Bigloiv  Papers,  that  he  ever  wrote.  In  all  his  early 
production,  the  aim  is  serious,  the  conceptions  power 
ful,  and  the  accomplishment  marked  by  grace  and 
vigor.  Yet  in  none  of  them  had  beauty  reached 
through  him  its  full  expression,  nor  had  moral 
indignation,  though  in  evidence,  yet  found  its  most 
effective  utterance. 

Before  Lowell  was  thirty  years  of  age,  he  had 
written  the  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  the  Fable  for 
Critics,  and  the  first  series  of  the  Biglow  Papers,— 
productions  in  which  he  proved  himself  to  be  a 
poet  of  great  power  and  of  abundant  resources  of 
style  and  imagery.  In  Sir  Launfal,  for  the  first 
time  with  Lowell,  the  tone  of  Christian  morality  is 
equalled  by  the  beauty  of  varied  materials ;  and  the 
observation  of  nature  and  the  contemplation  of 
human  life  become  broader  and  more  poetic.  The 
Fable  for  Critics,  although  open  to  the  charge  of 
hastiness  in  some  of  its  judgments,  is  a  frank  and 
strong  poem.  It  should  be  observed  that  qualities 
in  it  which  might  seem  defects  now  were  the  op 
posite  then ;  as  may  be  illustrated  in  Lowell's  early 


Lowell.  79 

discernment  there  of  the  high  station  of  Whittier 
and  of  Hawthorne,  the  former  of  whom  had  not 
yet  reached  perfection  in  verse,  nor  had  the  latter 
then  written  a  great  romance. 

The  Bigloiv  Papers,  the  first  proof  of  Lowell's 
genius  as  a  national  poet,  is  of  most  importance  as 
expressing  the  best  elements  of  the  national  charac 
ter  up  to  that  time;  and  of  subordinate  value  as  a 
satire  of  follies  of  the  day  and  as  a  vehicle  for 
exhibiting  the  Yankee  dialect  and  manners.  The 
seriousness  of  the  motive  of  the  work  should  care 
fully  be  discerned,  the  exuberant  wit  and  humor  in 
the  Biglow  Papers  existing  only  to  insure  that  the 
arrow  of  deep  indignation  should  come  to  its  mark 
on  the  light  feather  of  grace  and  dialect. 

From  the  time  of  publication  of  the  first  series 
of  the  Bigloiu  Papers,  for  nearly  twenty  years, 
Lowell  published  no  important  verse,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  the  Bigloiv  Papers,  Second  Series,  which 
differed  from  the  first  principally  in  being  more 
serious  in  style.  During  the  interval  Lowell  was  at 
first  abroad,  then  succeeded  to  Longfellow's  chair  at 
Harvard,  and  afterwards  became  editor  successively 
of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  and  of  the  North  American 
Review.  In  1864,  he  published  Fireside  Travels. 

The  Commemoration  Ode,  a  year  later,  was  a  rev 
elation  even  to  Lowell  himself  of  a  power  in  him  far 
higher  than  any  he  had  exercised  hitherto,  or  exer 
cised  afterwards  to  the  same  perfection.  The  Ode 
contains  passages  that  for  true  sublimity  are  tran 
scended  by  those  of  no  ode  in  the  English  language. 
In  timeliness  of  utterance  Lowell's  ode  surpasses  all 


8o  American  Song. 

others.  In  the  author,  its  echoes  ring  still  loud  and 
clear  in  Lowell's  Concord  Ode,  or  in  the  ode  Under 
the  Old  Elm,  where  Washington  draws  his  sword 
with  such  consequences. 

After  the  production  of  Under  the  Willows,  con 
taining  the  modest  Agro  Dolce  and  the  charming 
Auf  WiederseJicn,  the  Cathedral  rises  forth  at  Low 
ell's  farthest  reach  of  reflection.  Large,  profoundest 
meditation  on  a  great  theme  is  the  kernel ;  and  such 
vision  of  the  deep  things  perceived  in  nature  and 
humanity  is,  when  leading  to  the  spiritual  vision  of 
the  workings  of  God,  the  essence  of  the  highest 
poetry. 

In  1870,  Lowell  published  two  volumes  of  essays, 
written  in  an  attractive  style,  My  Study  Windows  and 
Among  my  Books,  First  Series.  In  order  to  read 
them  with  appreciation,  however,  as  well  as  enjoy 
ment,  it  is  necessary  for  the  reader  to  have,  to  start 
with,  a  fair  amount  of  scholarship  himself ;  he  will 
then  find  that  his  admiration  of  them  grows  with  the 
increase  in  his  own  knowledge  and  sincerity.  Among 
my  Books,  Second  Series,  is,  if  possible,  still  more 
scholarly.  In  the  main  the  three  volumes  exhibit 
genius  interpreting  genius  less  familiar  to  the  Ameri 
can  who  peruses  them.  Less  elaborate  in  style  and 
in  matter,  but  hardly  less  valuable  are  the  remaining 
prose  works  of  Lowell,  Democracy  and  Other  Essays, 
Political  Essays?  Latest  Literary  Essays,  and  the  Old 
English  Dramatists. 

In  Heartsease  and  Rue,  written  at  the  sunset  of 
Lowell's  life,  his  genius  casts  its  light  about  more 

1  Especially  the  essay  last  in  order. 


Lowell.  8 1 

softly  beautiful  than  ever  before.  Heartsease  and 
Rue,  Agassis,  Temper  a  Mutantur,  and  Fit  z- Adams' 
Story,  with  the  well-drawn  sketch  of  the  gentle  cynic 
who  is  the  principal  character,  are  longer  poems  of 
various  notes.  In  the  shorter  ones  of  sentiment  the 
wonderful  youthfulness  of  the  author  seems  to  have 
been  waiting  its  expression  because  he  had  all  his  life 
wished  to  take  weightier  things  first.  Lowell  died 
August  12,  1891. 

First  and  foremost,  Lowell  is  the  American  poet 
of  patriotism.  In  his  song  for  his  country,  the  essen 
tial  ideas,  while  against  national  selfishness,  vanity, 
or  aggrandizement,  also  inspire  the  reader  toward 
justice  and  freedom ;  and  he  has  scourged  base  poli 
ticians  as  he  would  have  done  in  any  country  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  been  his  birthplace. 

As  a  critic,  Lowell  was  more  than  brilliant  or  witty ; 
qualities  of  this  sort  were  in  him  subordinate  to 
ethical  aims  and  standards.  The  latter  dominated 
a  literary  purpose  which  makes  his  essays  interesting 
to  those  who  enjoy  letters  not  for  mere  drudgery 
nor  for  dilettanteism  ;  for  in  literature,  as  well  as  in 
life,  the  minor  graces  and  virtues  were  held  by  him 
in  subordination.  He  made  sure  of  the  main  things, 
and  took  so  much  of  the  rest  as  came  along  with 
them. 

For  the  moral  element  is  the  central  one  in  Lowell 
— the  one  around  which  all  the  others  crystallize.  In 
support  of  that,  satire  was  a  weapon  ;  for  the  sake 
of  that,  love  shows  its  most  beautiful  aspects ;  to 
strengthen  that,  scholarship  is  turned  on  the  most 
healthful  subjects  ;  to  secure  that,  poetry  glorifies 

6 


82  American  Song. 

public  virtue.  Even  strong  love  for  genius  is  re 
pressed,  when  its  utterance  might  appear  to  extol 
weak  character. 

Together  with  this  moral  element,  and  springing 
from  it,  goes,  closely  connected,  Lowell's  insight, 
which  made  him  not  only  a  writer  of  powerful  verse, 
and  an  appreciative  student  of  the  genius  of  the  best 
poets,  but  also  a  critic  of  political  life,  and  a  man  of 
felicity  and  high  success  as  a  foreign  minister. 

With  some  American  authors,  especially  with  Poe, 
one  perusal  gives  all  that  the  general  reader  can 
profit  by ;  but  Lowell,  even  when  familiar,  is  an 
author  still  to  be  read  ;  and  in  the  extension  alike  of 
scholarship  and  of  national  integrity,  his  power  will 
yet  be  useful.  For  the  future,  his  literary  essays 
have  surely  fruit  to  bear — perhaps  most  of  their 
fruit — in  the  labor  of  others:  for,  with  the  study  of 
the  best  modern  literature,  will  go  on  in  this  country 
the  examination  of  his  literary  observations.  His 
poetry  is  largely  unassimilated  by  the  mass  of  Ameri 
can  readers,  and  calls  for  greater  depth  and  intensity 
of  study  than  have  ever  been  given. 

Special  references  :  Lowell's  Poetical  Works  and  Heartsease  and 
Rue.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  Norton's  Letters  of  Lowell.  Har 
pers.  Underwood's  The  Poet  and  the  Man.  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&Co.  

ODE. 

i. 

In  the  old  days  of  awe  and  keen-eyed  wonder,1 
The  Poet's  song  with  blood-warm  truth  was  rife  ; 

1  Cf.  ~P\ittzr\ha.ms  Art,:  of  English  Poesie. 


Lowell.  83 

He  saw  the  mysteries  which  circle  under 

The  outward  shell  and  skin  of  daily  life. 
Nothing  to  him  were  fleeting  time  and  fashion, 

His  soul  was  led  by  the  eternal  law  ; 
There  was  in  him  no  hope  of  fame,  no  passion, 

But  with  calm,  godlike  eyes  he  only  saw. 
He  did  not  sigh  o'er  heroes  dead  and  buried, 

Chief-mourner  at  the  Golden  Age's  hearse, 
Nor  deem  that  souls  whom  Charon1  grim  had  ferried 

Alone  were  fitting  themes  of  epic  verse  : 
He  could  believe  the  promise  of  to-morrow, 

And  feel  the  wondrous  meaning  of  to-day  ; 
He  had  a  deeper  faith  in  holy  sorrow 

Than  the  world's  seeming  loss  could  take  away. 
To  know  the  heart  of  all  things  was  his  duty, 

All  things  did  sing  to  him  to  make  him  wise, 
And  with  a  sorrowful  and  conquering  beauty, 

The  soul  of  all  looked  grandly  from  his  eyes. 
He  gazed  on  all  within  him  and  without  him, 

He  watched  the  flowing  of  Time's  steady  tide, 
And  shapes  of  glory  floated  all  about  him 

And  whispered  to  him,  and  he  prophesied. 
Than  all  men  he  more  fearless  was  and  freer, 

And  all  his  brethren  cried  with  one  accord, — 
"  Behold  the  holy  man  !  Behold  the  Seer  ! 

Him  who  hath  spoken  with  the  unseen  Lord  !  " 
He  to  his  heart  with  large  embrace  had  taken 

The  universal  sorrow  of  mankind, 
And,  from  that  root,  a  shelter  never  shaken, 

The  tree  of  wisdom  grew  with  sturdy  rind. 
He  could  interpret  well  the  wondrous  voices 

Which  to  the  calm  and  silent  spirit  come  ; 

1  Charon,  the  ferryman  in  classic  legend  to  the  infernal  regions. 


84  American  Song. 


He  knew  that  the  One  Soul  no  more  rejoices 

In  the  star's  anthem  than  the  insect's  hum. 
He  in  his  heart  was  ever  meek  and  humble, 

And  yet  with  kingly  pomp  his  numbers  ran, 
As  he  foresaw  how  all  things  false  should  crumble 

Before  the  free,  uplifted  soul  of  man  : 
And,  when  he  was  made  full  to  overflowing 

With  all  the  loveliness  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Out  rushed  his  song,  like  molten  iron  glowing, 

To  show  God  sitting  by  the  humblest  hearth. 
With  calmest  courage  he  was  ever  ready 

To  teach  that  action  was  the  truth  of  thought, 
And,  with  strong  arm  and  purpose  firm  and  steady, 

An  anchor  for  the  drifting  world  he  wrought. 
So  did  he  make  the  meanest  man  partaker 

Of  all  his  brother-gods  unto  him  gave  ; 
All  souls  did  reverence  him  and  name  him  Maker, 

And  when  he  died  heaped  temples  on  his  grave. 
And  still  his  deathless  words  of  light  are  swimming 

Serene  throughout  the  great  deep  infinite 
Of  human  soul,  unwaning,  and  undimming, 

To  cheer  and  guide  the  mariner  at  night. 


n. 


But  now  the  Poet  is  an  empty  rhymer 

Who  lies  with  idle  elbow  on  the  grass, 
And  fits  his  singing,  like  a  cunning  timer, 

To  all  men's  prides  and  fancies  as  they  pass. 
Not  his  the  song,  which,  in  its  metre  holy, 

Chimes  with  the  music  of  the  eternal  stars, 
Humbling  the  tyrant,  lifting  up  the  lowly, 

And  sending  sun  through  the  soul's  prison-bars. 


Lowell.  85 

Maker  no  more, — O  no  !  unmaker  rather, 

For  he  unmakes  who  doth  not  all  put  forth 
The  power  given  freely  by  our  loving  Father 

To  show  the  body's  dross,  the  spirit's  worth. 
Awake  !  great  spirit  of  the  ages  olden  ! 

Shiver  the  mists  that  hide  thy  starry  lyre, 
And  let  man's  soul  be  yet  again  beholden 

To  thee  for  wings  to  soar  to  her  desire. 
O,  prophesy  no  more  to-morrow's  splendor, 

Be  no  more  shamefaced  to  speak  out  for  Truth, 
Lay  on  her  altar  all  the  gushings  tender, 

The  hope,  the  fire,  the  loving  faith  of  youth  ! 
O,  prophesy  no  more  the  Maker's  coming, 

Say  not  his  onward  footsteps  thou  canst  hear 
In  the  dim  void,  like  to  the  awful  humming 

Of  the  great  wings  of  some  new-lighted  sphere  ! 
O,  prophesy  no  more,  but  be  the  Poet ! 

This  longing  was  but  granted  unto  thee 
That,  when  all  beauty  thou  should'st  feel  and  know  it, 

That  beauty  in  its  highest  thou  couldst  be. 
O  thou  who  meanest  tost  with  sealike  longings, 

Who  dimly  hearest  voices  call  on  thee, 
Whose  soul  is  overfilled  with  mighty  throngings 

Of  love,  and  fear,  and  glorious  agony, 
Thou  of  the  toil-strung  hands  and  iron  sinews 

And  soul  by  Mother  Earth  with  freedom  fed, 
In  whom  the  hero-spirit  yet  continues, 

The  old  free  nature  is  not  chained  or  dead, 
Arouse  !  let  thy  soul  break  in  music-thunder, 

Let  loose  the  ocean  that  is  in  thee  pent, 
Pour  forth  thy  hope,  thy  fear,  thy  love,  thy  wonder, 

And  tell  the  age  what  all  its  signs  have  meant. 
Where'er  thy  wildered  crowd  of  brethren  jostles, 


86  American  Song. 

Where'er  there  lingers  but  a  shadow  of  wrong, 
There  still  is  need  of  martyrs  and  apostles, 

There  still  are  texts  for  never-dying  song  : 
From  age  to  age  man's  still  aspiring  spirit 

Finds  wider  scope  and  sees  with  clearer  eyes, 
And  thou  in  larger  measure  dost  inherit 

What  made  thy  great  forerunners  free  and  wise. 
Sit  thou  enthroned  where  the  Poet's  mountain 

Above  the  thunder  lifts  its  silent  peak, 
And  roll  thy  songs  down  like  a  gathering  fountain, 

They  all  may  drink  and  find  the  rest  they  seek. 
Sing  !  there  shall  silence  grow  in  earth  and  heaven, 

A  silence  of  deep  awe  and  wondering  ; 
For,  listening  gladly,  bend  the  angels  even, 

To  hear  a  mortal  like  an  angel  sing. 

in. 

Among  the  toil-worn  poor  my  soul  is  seeking 

For  who  shall  bring  the  Maker's  name  to  light, 
To  be  the  voice  of  that  almighty  speaking 

Which  every  age  demands  to  do  it  right. 
Proprieties  our  silken  bards  environ  ; 

He  who  would  be  the  tongue  of  this  wide  land 
Must  string  his  harp  with  chords  of  sturdy  iron 

And  strike  it  with  a  toil  imbrowned  hand  : 
One  who  hath  dwelt  with  Nature  well  attended, 

Who  hath  learnt  wisdom  from  her  mystic  books, 
Whose  soul  with  all  her  countless  lives  hath  blended, 

So  that  all  beauty  awes  us  in  his  looks  ; 
Who  not  with  body's  waste  his  soul  hath  pampered, 

Who  as  the  clear  northwestern  wind  is  free, 
Who  walks  with  Form's  observances  unhampered, 

And  follows  the  One  Will  obediently  ; 


Lowell.  87 

Whose  eyes,  like  windows  on  a  breezy  summit, 

Control  a  lovely  prospect  every  way  ; 
Who  doth  not  sound  God's  sea  with  earthly  plummet, 

And  find  a  bottom  still  of  worthless  clay  ; 
Who  heeds  not  how  the  lower  gusts  are  working, 

Knowing  that  one  sure  wind  blows  on  above, 
And  sees,  beneath  the  foulest  faces  lurking, 

One  God-built  shrine  of  reverence  and  love  ; 
Who  sees  all  stars  that  wheel  their  shining  marches 

Around  the  centre  fixed  of  Destiny, 
Where  the  encircling  soul  serene  o'erarches 

The  moving  globe  of  being  like  a  sky  ; 
Who  feels  that  God  and  Heaven's  great  deeps  are  nearer 

Him  to  whose  heart  his  fellow-man  is  nigh, 
Who  doth  not  hold  his  soul's  own  freedom  dearer 

Than  that  of  all  his  brethren,  low  or  high  ; 
Who  to  the  Right  can  feel  himself  the  truer 

For  being  gently  patient  with  the  wrong, 
Who  sees  a  brother  in  the  evil-doer, 

And  finds  in  Love  the  heart's-blood  of  his  song  ; — 
This,  this  is  he  for  whom  the  world  is  waiting, 

To  sing  the  beatings  of  its  mighty  heart, 
Too  long  hath  it  been  patient  with  the  grating 

Of  scrannel-pipes,  *  and  heard  it  misnamed  Art. 
To  him  the  smiling  soul  of  man  shall  listen, 

Laying  awhile  its  crown  of  thorns  aside, 
And  once  again  in  every  eye  shall  glisten 

The  glory  of  a  nature  satisfied. 
His  verse  shall  have  a  great  commanding  motion, 

Heaving  and  swelling  with  a  melody 
Learnt  of  the  sky,  the  river,  and  the  ocean, 

And  all  the  pure,  majestic  things  that  be. 

1  Scrannel,  miserable ;  a  word  not  now  in  prose  usage. 


American  Song. 


Awake,  then,  thou  !  we  pine  for  thy  great  presence 

To  make  us  feel  the  soul  once  more  sublime, 
We  are  of  far  too  infinite  an  essence 

To  rest  contented  with  the  lies  of  Time. 
Speak  out  !  and  lo  !  a  hush  of  deepest  wonder 

Shall  sink  o'er  all  this  many-voiced  scene, 
As  when  a  sudden  burst  of  rattling  thunder 

Shatters  the  blueness  of  a  sky  serene. 


TO  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON.1 

AGRO-DOLCE.  a 

The  wind  is  roistering  out  of  doors, 

My  windows  shake  and  my  chimney  roars  ; 

My  Elmwood*  chimneys  seem  crooning  to  me, 

As  of  old,  in  their  moody,  minor  key, 

And  out  of  the  past  the  hoarse  wind  blows, 

As  I  sit  in  my  arm-chair,  and  toast  my  toes. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  nine-and-forty,"  they  seem  to  sing, 

"  We  saw  you  a  little  toddling  thing. 

We  knew  you  child  and  youth  and  man, 

A  wonderful  fellow  to  dream  and  plan, 

With  a  great  thing  always  to  come, — who  knows  ? 

Well,  well  !  't  is  some  comfort  to  toast  one's  toes. 

"  How  many  times  have  you  sat  at  gaze 
Till  the  mouldering  fire  forgot  to  blaze, 

1  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  writer  on  the  fine  arts  and  translator  of 
Dante  ;  born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1829. 
*  Agro-dolce,  bitter-sweet. 
3  Elm  wood,  the  residence  of  the  poet  at  Cambridge. 


Lowell.  89 

Shaping  among  the  whimsical  coals 
Fancies  and  figures  and  shining  goals  ! 
What  matters  the  ashes  that  cover  those  ? 
While  hickory  lasts  you  can  toast  your  toes. 

"  O  dream-ship-builder  !  where  are  they  all, 

Your  grand  three-deckers,  deep-chested  and  tall, 

That  should  crush  the  waves  under  canvas  piles, 

And  anchor  at  last  by  the  Fortunate  Isles  ? 

There  's  gray  in  your  beard,  the  years  turn  foes, 

While  you  muse  in  your  arm-chair,  and  toast  your  toes." 

I  sit  and  dream  that  I  hear,  as  of  yore, 

My  Elmwood  chimneys'  deep-throated  roar ; 

If  much  be  gone,  there  is  much  remains  ; 

By  the  embers  of  loss  I  count  my  gains, 

You  and  yours  with  the  best,  till  the  old  hope  glows 

In  the  fanciful  flame,  as  I  toast  my  toes. 

Instead  of  a  fleet  of  broad-browed  ships, 

To  send  a  child's  armada  of  chips  ! 

Instead  of  the  great  guns,  tier  on  tier, 

A  freight  of  pebbles  and  grass-blades  sere  ! 

"  Well,  maybe  more  love  with  the  less  gift  goes," 

I  growl,  as,  half  moody,  I  toast  my  toes. 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN  I1 

SUMMER. 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 

Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane  ; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 

1  Auf  Wiederseheiti  till  we  meet  again. 


9°  American  Song. 

A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said, — "  Auf  Wiedersehen  !  " 


With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said, — "  Auf  Wiedersehen  !  " 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair  ; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she, — "  Auf  Wiedersehen!" 

'T  is  thirteen  years  ;  once  more  I  press 
The  turf  that  silences  the  lane  ; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 

I  smell  the  lilacs,  and — ah,  yes, 
I  hear  "  Auf  Wiedersehen!  " 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 

She  said,  "  Auf  Wiedersehen  !  " 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


Verse  may  have  other  aims  than  to  convey  aspira 
tion  ;  it  can  serve  to  correct  folly  and  to  point  the 
moral  of  better  manners  and  better  sense.  Such  an 
end  satisfies  towns-people  ;  they  like  to  see  their  sen 
timent  of  good-fellowship  broadened  and  more 
thoroughly  enlivened,  as  well  as  any  eccentricity 
among  them  lopped  away  by  the  keen  knife  of  ridi 
cule.  A  poet  who  can  do  these  things  well,  receives 
popularity,  as  Holmes  does ;  though  Holmes  is  not 
this  alone,  being  capable  also  in  poetry  of  dealing 
with  philosophical  truth. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  born  at  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  August  29,  1809.  He  graduated  at 
Harvard  in  1829,  and  after  several  years' professional 
study  in  Europe,  took  his  degree  of  Doctor  of  Medi 
cine  in  1836.  For  a  part  of  his  life  he  has  been  a 
professor  of  medicine,  but  for  a  still  longer  period  a 
man  of  letters.  His  work  as  an  author  embraces 
poetry,  prose,  fiction,  and  the  familiar  essay. 

The  Breakfast  Table  Series,  the  best  known 
among  his  prose  writings,  is,  in  certain  ways,  paral 
leled  in  his  verse.  In  both  he  treats  of  matters  of 

91 


92  American  Song. 

life  which  are  to  many  of  the  community  serious  and 
important, — to  that  part  especially  whom  we  hear 
alluded  to  as  having  had  the  advantages  of  educa 
tion,  and  who  feel  that  they  can  profit  by  a  rhymed 
sermon  compounded  to  be  at  once  palatable  and 
electrical,  but  whose  intellectual  disinterestedness 
stops  here.  For  to  this  part  of  the  educated  as  well 
as  the  uneducated  class,  the  savor  of  learning  is  bet 
ter  than  the  toil  of  scholarship,  and  it  is  a  great  deal 
easier;  to  them,  too,  science  is  made  to  play  with, 
rather  than  to  work  out,  and  a  society  that  chats  is 
far  more  satisfactory  than  one  that  is  in  earnest. 

Dr.  Holmes  understands  all  this,  no  one  better. 
The  unimaginative  reader  would  make  the  mis 
take  of  classifying  the  author  as  superficial  ;  let  him 
try,  then,  to  vie  with  the  Autocrat !  The  truth  is, 
that  he  must  be  at  once  a  wit,  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  a  gentleman,  who  can  detect  the  absurd,  ex 
pose  the  pretentious,  and  denounce  the  vulgar  as 
cleverly  and  unerringly  as  Holmes  does.  The  keys 
to  his  satire  are  not  so  common  that  they  are  easily 
found  and  made  use  of. 

But  Holmes  is  not  a  satirist  alone.  He  has  an  eye 
for  character,  and  especially  for  oddity.  Witness 
his  One  Hoss  Shay,  How  the  Old  Horse  Won  the 
Bet,  and  On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl,  in  which  the 
humorous  qualities  of  the  subject  chosen  are  woven 
into  his  work.  His  feelings  overflow  in  another 
sense  in  the  social  verses  At  the  Saturday  Club,  A 
Fareivell  to  Agassis,  and  The  Semi-Centennial  Cele 
bration  of  the  New  England  Society.  The  Opening  of 
the  Piano  is  also  distinctive,  but  its  smart  point  at 


Holmes.  93 

the  close  is  in  a  style  too  much  imitated  later  by 
writers  for  children. 

The  verses  on  Dorothy  Q.  show  the  interest  with 
which  Holmes  can  surround  what  in  itself  is  unin 
teresting.  Another  view  of  women,  La  Grisette,  is 
piquant  and  sparkling, — one  of  Holmes's  best.  The 
lines  dance  along  as  heartily  and  merrily  as  the  mind 
of  the  imaginary  beholder,  and  as  musically  and 
harmoniously  as  rhythm  should  always  run.  Iris, 
Her  Book,  is  a  poem  dealing  with  a  complex  and 
usually  uncomprehended  nature,  and  in  it  Holmes 
evinces  by  the  pathos  he  casts  about  it,  to  what 
length  his  strength  and  sympathy  can  go. 

The  poet's  feeling  widens  to  patriotism  both  for 
New  England  and  for  other  parts  of  his  country.  His 
lines  on  The  Hudson,  and  on  The  Battle  of  Lexing 
ton,  are  firm  and  sonorous.  Union  and  Liberty  is  a 
song  that  the  nation  cannot  afford  to  let  die. 

A  large  part  of  Holmes's  choicest  work  consists 
of  short  poems,  but  they  are  master-pieces  of  art. 
The  little  poem,  The  Last  Leaf,  has  humor,  pathos, 
and  the  fervor  of  frankness  shifting  and  blending  one 
into  the  other  as  gradually  as  the  change  of  seasons, 
yet  all  subordinate  with  the  modesty  of  art  rather 
than  obtrusive.  The  Last  Leaf,  so  far  as  it  goes, 
is  one  of  the  most  perfect  productions  of  Amer 
ican  verse.  The  Living  Temple,  on  the  other  hand, 
being  so  physiological,  does  not  in  its  matter  fulfil 
the  promise  of  the  title.  A  writer,  as  here,  may  be 
hindered  as  well  as  aided  by  the  time  in  which  he 
lives ;  and  though  Holmes  now  and  then  in  the 
poem  breaks  through  the  materializing  influence  of 


94  American  Song. 

science,  The  Living  Temple  is  not  a  poem  to  be  com 
pared  with  The  CJiambcrcd  Nautilus.  The  latter  is 
as  varied  as  The  Last  Leaf,  and  has  also  in  its  style 
grace,  proportion,  and  dignity.  Not  perfect  entirely, 
perhaps  :  but  would  that  American  literature  were  full 
of  things  as  good  !  It  may  safely  be  put  side  by 
side  with  poems  of  the  same  length  from  Shelley  or 
Tennyson ;  for  it  has  the  rare  attributes  of  life, 
beauty,  and  atmosphere. 

Holmes  possesses  the  power,  which  he  does  not 
often  use,  of  writing  longer  poems  without  being 
trivial  or  didactic.  Agnes  is  a  graceful  romance 
full  of  charming  fancies.  Wind  Clouds  and  Star- 
Drifts  is  another  poem  that  must  be  considered,  in 
order  to  do  justice  to  Holmes.  In  the  part  entitled 
"Ambition,"  the  nobler  manifestation  of  that  desire 
is  presented.  In  "Regrets"  we  find  traces  of  what 
Holmes  might  have  become  if  he  had  been  purely 
poet.  The  whole  fancy,  in  short,  is  worth  a  very 
careful  reading. 

Holmes,  then,  is  the  best  of  teachers  in  America  to 
day  in  regard  to  what  is  true  wit  and  true  feeling. 
He  knows  his  readers ;  he  has  made  himself  ac 
quainted  with  their  desires  and  their  needs.  He  is 
also  a  manly  writer;  but  besides  being  vigorous  and 
energetic,  he  is  practical  and  economical  enough  in 
the  use  of  his  intellectual  material  to  secure  from  it 
the  largest  possible  effectiveness.  He  proves  some 
times  that  he  can  be  an  artist  in  the  use  of  language ; 
and  now  and  then,  if  the  reader  will  study  him  thor 
oughly,  he  will  find  him  grappling  with  the  deepest 
spiritual  problems. 
Special  reference  :  Holmes's  Poems.  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co. 


Holmes.  95 

ON  LENDING  A   PUNCH-BOWL. 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,    it  tells  of  good  old 

times, 
Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry  Christmas 

chimes  ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave,  and 

true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old  bowl 

was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar  ;  so  runs  the  ancient 
tale  ; 

'T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was 
like  a  flail ; 

And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his 
strength  should  fail, 

He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old  Flem 
ish  ale. 

'T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire,  to  please  his  lov 
ing  dame, 

Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the 
same  ; 

And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was  found, 

'T  was  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed 
smoking  round. 

But,    changing  hands,  it   reached   at  length    a   Puritan 

divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little  wine, 
But  hated  punch  and  prelacy  ;  and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 
He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles  and 

schnaps. 


96  American  Song. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what  's  next, — it  left  the 

Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came, — a  hundred  souls 

and  more, — 

Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new  abodes, — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hundred  1  ads. 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  closing 

dim, 
When  brave  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and  filled  it  to 

the  brim  ; 
The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with  his 

sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were  ranged  about  the 

board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in, — the  man  that  never 

feared, — 
He  took  a  long   and   solemn  draught,   and   wiped   his 

yellow  beard  ; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers — the  men  that  fought 

and  prayed — 
All  drank  as  't  were  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a  man 

afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming  eagle 

flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  l  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's  wild 

halloo  ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught  to  kith 

and  kin  : 
"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of 

Hollands  gin  !  " 
1  Pequot,  an  ancient  tribe  of  Indians  in  New  England. 


Holmes.  97 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their  leaves 

and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little  cherub's 

nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in  mirth  or 

joy, 
'T  was  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  parting 

boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  't  will  do  you  good, — poor  child, 

you  '11  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  midnight 

air; 
And  if,  God  bless  me  ! — you  were  hurt,  't  would  keep 

away  the  chill  ; 
So  John  did  drink, — and  well  he  wrought  that  night  at 

Bunker's  Hill  ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old  English 

cheer  ; 
I  tell  you  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its  symbol 

here  ; 
'T  is  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess  ;  hast  thou  a  drunken 

soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl  ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past, — its  pressed  yet  fragrant 

flowers, — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls, — the  ivy  on  its 

towers  ; — 
Nay,  this  poor  bawble  it  bequeathed, —  my   eyes   grow 

moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its 

brim. 

7 


98  American  Song. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight  to  me  ; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid  be  ; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from  the  sin, 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words  :  "  My  dear, 
where  have  you  been  ? " 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 

I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier '  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

1  Crier,  a  former  official  in  this  country,   who  gave  public  notices 
by  loud  proclamation. 


Holmes.  99 


The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago, 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here  ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer  ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 


ioo  American  Song. 

THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG. 

A    PROFESSIONAL    BALLAD. 

There  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town, 

He  bought  him  a  STETHOSCOPE  '  nice  and  new, 

All  mounted  and  finished  and  polished  down, 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 

It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawl, 

And  spun  him  a  web  of  ample  size, 
Wherein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 

A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 

The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue, 

The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and  long  ; 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 
Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 

Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently, 

This  fine  young  man  would  show  his  skill ; 

And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 
A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 

Some  said  that  his  liver  was  short  of  bile, 
And  some  that  his  heart  was  over  size, 

While  some  kept  arguing  all  the  while 

He  was  crammed  with  tubercles  up  to  his  eyes. 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 
And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause  ; 

1  Stethoscope,  a  medical  instrument  for  learning,  by  its  application 
to  the  chest,  the  condition  of  internal  organs. 


Holmes.  101 

Said  he, — The  man  must  die,  you  see, 
By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  '  laws. 

But  since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 
To  explore  his  chest  it  may  be  well ; 

For  if  he  should  die  and  it  were  not  done, 
You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 

And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear  ; 
Mon  Dicu  !  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 

Why  here  is  a  sound  that 's  mighty  queer  ! 

The  bourdonnement*  is  very  clear, — 

Amphoric  buzzing,  as  I  'm  alive  ! 
Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear  ; 

Amphoric  buzzing,  said  all  the  five. 

There  's  empyema  beyond  a  doubt  ; 

We  '11  plunge  a  trocar 3  in  his  side, — 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out, 

They  tapped  the  patient ;  so  he  died. 

Now  such  as  hate  new-fashioned  toys 

Began  to  look  extremely  glum  ; 
They  said  that  rattles  were  made  for  boys, 

And  vowed  that  his  buzzing  was  all  a  hum. 

1  Antoine  Louis,  a  celebrated  French  surgeon,  born  at  Metz  in 
1723- 

2  Bourdonnement,  a  buzzing  sound  like  that  of  an  insect. 

3  Trocar,  a  surgical  instrument  for  evacuating  fluids  from  cavities. 


102  American  Song. 

There  was  an  old  lady  had  long  been  sick, 
And  what  was  the  matter  none  did  know  ; 

Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue  was  quick  ; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 

So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat, 
With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row  ; 

She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he  was  at, 
To  thump  her  and  tumble  her  ruffles  so. 

Now  when  the  stethoscope  came  out, 
The  flies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz  ;- 

O  ho  !  the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt ; 
An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 

The  bruit  de  rape  1  and  the  bruit  de  scie l 
And  the  bruit  de  diable  1  are  all  combined  ; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  a  would  be, 
If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find  ! 

Now,  when  the  neighboring  doctors  found 

A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried, 
They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 

In  squads  of  twenty  ;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail, 
Received  this  kind  young  doctor's  cares  ; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 
And  short  of  breath  on  mounting  stairs. 

1  Bruit  de  rape,       \ 

Bruit  de  scie,         1      The  y°ung  d°ctor  is  alluding  to  medical 
Bruit  de  diable      i  symPtoms-  See  Foster's  Medical  Diet.,  Bruit. 

2  Jean  Baptiste    Bouillaud,   professor   of   clinics   in  the  Medical 
Faculty  of  Paris,  born  at  Angoulcme  in  1796. 


Holmes.  103 

They  all  made  rhymes  with  "  sighs  "  and  "  skies," 
And  loathed  their  puddings  and  buttered  rolls, 

And  dieted  much  to  their  friend's  surprise, 
On  pickles  and  pencils  and  chalk  and  coals. 

So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 

The  frightened  insects  buzzed  the  more  ; 

So  over  all  their  chests  he  found 
The  rdle  sifflant?  and  rale  sonore.1 

He  shook  his  head  ; — there  's  grave  disease, — 

I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die  ; 
A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please, 

Surviving  friends  would  gratify. 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 
Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men, 

That  each  his  honest  love  avowed, 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast  ; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down  ; 
And  so  he  was  reduced  at  last 

To  practise  in  a  country  town. 

The  doctors  being  very  sore, 

A  stethoscope  they  did  devise, 
That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore, 

With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Now  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 

But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 
Or  you  may  be  cheated,  like  this  young  man, 

By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 

1  Rale  sifflatit     \      Other    symptoms.      See,    as    before,    Foster's 
Rdle  sonore       f  Medical  Diet.,  Rales. 


104  American  Song. 

Summary. 

Even  though  there  is  still  no  little  difference  of 
opinion  on  the  subject,  it  may  be  well  to  endeavor 
to  form  some  comparative  estimate  of  the  poets  in 
the  present  group.  The  poetic  attainment  of  each 
may  not  differ  much  in  rank  from  that  of  any  other, 
and  yet  it  may  be  of  advantage  to  inquire  into  their 
individual  merits. 

Can  we  say  that  among  these  poets  Poe  holds 
the  first  place?  So  far  from  this  being  true,  it  may 
be  doubted  with  good  grounds  whether  any  one  of 
the  others  were  not  more  a  poet  than  he.  It  would 
be  incorrect,  however,  to  reach  this  conclusion,  as  has 
sometimes  been  done,  by  alleging  merely  his  defi 
ciency  in  grasp  of  the  social  and  political  needs  of  the 
community  ;  it  is  rather  because  his  lines  usually  lack 
the  element  of  feeling,  which  is  almost  an  essential  in 
good  poetry. 

Unlike  Poe,  Emerson  at  his  best,  has  feeling  of  a 
high  quality,  yet  Emerson's  best  verse  is  a  very  small 
part  of  his  verse  ;  and,  after  all,  Emerson  is  chiefly 
an  essayist. 

Bryant  is  more  even.  He  will  bear  careful  study, 
and  is,  possibly,  for  one  who  wishes  to  train  himself 
in  the  art  of  versification,  the  finest  model '  among 
all  those  poets  who  were  his  congeners.  Yet  Bry 
ant's  song  is  hardly  ever  heard  when  he  comes  out 
of  his  woods  ;  he  is  not  distinctively  a  poet  of  human 
society. 

1  Longfellow,  who  is  broader  and  stronger,  is  probably  not  so 
excellent  a  model  for  the  student. 


Holmes.  105 

The  question  may  be  asked,  in  this  connection, 
how  among  the  others  Holmes  stands  ?  In  a  writer 
of  such  perennial  vigor,  who  is  still  living,  it  is  hap 
pily  too  early  to  estimate  his  performance  ;  but  his 
humor  makes  him  far  from  the  least  memorable  of 
the  group. 

As  to  Whittier,  his  merit  over  Bryant  is  that  he 
has  more  passion.  His  fault,  if  it  be  one,  is  that  he 
is  partisan. 

Jones  Very  has  a  place  and  consideration  apart. 
His  spiritual  poise  of  mind,  however,  would  seem  to 
place  him  above  Whittier,  while  his  lack  of  poetic 
observation  on  the  real  world  of  men  would  prevent 
him  from  being  named  as  the  equal  of  Lowell  or 
Longfellow. 

Lowell,  on  the  other  hand,  has  throughout  his  life 
been  among  men,  and  has  made  his  writings  a  part 
of  their  lives.  Scarcely  a  poem,  or,  indeed,  a  prose 
writing  of  his,  but  shows  his  genius  ;  a  genius  not 
only  large  and  versatile,  but  sane  in  its  influence, 
and  when  stopping  a  moment  to  jest,  at  once  serious 
again.  Yet  Lowell  has  not  such  art  as  Longfellow ; 
he  is  a  great  man  writing  poetry,  rather  than  a  poet 
pure  and  simple. 

Longfellow  has  the  imagination  of  the  fireside. 
He  has  sung  songs  of  home,  or  told  homely  stories 
of  distant  lands  that  are  favorites  the  world  over. 
So  familiar  has  he  become,  that  there  is  hardly  any 
one  of  education,  at  least  in  this  country,  who  has  not 
felt  his  influence.  Such  a  one  must  indeed  be  a  poet 
of  a  large  part  of  human  life,  one  to  whom  has  been 
granted  a  deep  and  thorough  vision  of  humanity. 


io6  American  Song. 

Yet  none  of  these,  if  we  compare  them  with  the 
foremost  in  history,  is  fairly  entitled  to  be  called  a 
great  poet.  For  the  execution  reached  here  has  been 
hardly  more  than  lyric ;  beyond  this  compass  lie  the 
drama  and  the  epic  with  their  fierce  play  and  heat  of 
passion,  which  American  poets  thus  far  have  hardly 
touched. 


2.     (For  the  three  following  poets,  cf.  under  the  gen 
eral  introduction  to  "  Contemporaries'''] 


WALT   WHITMAN. 


Walt  Whitman's  songs,  as  he  calls  them,  have  not 
the  technical  requirements  of  poetry  ;  on  the  other 
hand,  his  rhythmical  lines  have  sometimes  in  their 
content  and  in  their  style  certain  poetical  qualities 
to  an  unusual  degree. 

Walt  Whitman  was  born  at  West  Hills,  Long 
Island,  New  York,  May  31,  1819.  He  went  to 
school  in  New  York  City,  and  learned  also  the  print 
ers'  and  carpenters'  trades.  Later,  he  taught  school, 
edited  newspapers,  was  a  hospital  nurse  in  the  war 
of  1861,  and  afterwards  became  a  government  clerk 
at  Washington.  During  his  life  he  travelled  exten 
sively  on  foot  through  the  United  States. 

For  the  magnitude  of  his  vision  Whitman  owes 
much  to  Homer,  to  Shakespeare,  and  to  the  Book  of 
Job.  He  was  also  largely  influenced  by  Emerson's 
essays,  whose  independence  and  exaggeration  he 

107 


io8  American  Song. 

has  imitated.  The  most  important  source  for  his 
genius  is  his  observation  of  American  barbarism,  as 
he  terms  it.  He  embodies  his  sense  of  this  in  vivid 
imagery ;  imagining  frequently  and  boldly  that 
America  and  himself  possess  the  same  traits, — pride, 
carelessness,  and  generous  receptivity. 

The  subjects  of  Whitman's  verse  are  the  great  ele 
mental  forces  of  nature, — the  sound  of  the  sea,  the 
lapse  of  time,  or  the  blaze  of  the  sun ;  the  United 
States  with  its  men,  trades,  and  cities ;  and  the  ex 
perience  of  the  author,  as  he  wanders  out-of-doors, 
great-hearted  in  his  sentiment  for  men. 

Certain  of  Whitman's  poems  are  deservedly 
famous:  notably  those  on  President  Lincoln,  O 
Captain,  My  Captain,  and  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the 
Dooryard  Bloomed;  O  Star  of  France;  and  among  pas 
sages  there  is  almost  a  visible  splendor  in  that  part 
of  the  Song  of  Myself  ,  beginning  "  I  understand  the 
large  hearts  of  heroes,"  and  including  the  description 
of  the  rescuing  ship,  of  the  slave,  and  of  the  fire 
man  ;  and  in  the  lines  following,  which  tell  the  story 
of  the  sea-fight. 

The  fact  that  Whitman  is  a  poet  who  excels  by 
passages,  makes  it  specially  fit  to  select  his  shortest 
poems,  which  are  found  most  nearly  to  fulfil  the 
artistic  conditions  of  proportion  and  unity.  It  may 
be  observed,  also,  that  these  poems  are  not  widely 
open  to  charges  of  extravagance.  As  to  their  sev 
eral  species,  some  are  simple,  gentle,  loving,  as  The 
First  Dandelion,  The  Ship  Starting,  Sometimes  with 
One  I  Love,  What  Think  You  I  Take  my  Pen  in  Hand? 
Recorders,  Ages  Hence.  Others  are  full  of  manly  dis- 


Whitman.  109 

dain, —  To  a  Certain  Civilian  and  Not  Youth  Pertains 
to  Me,  with  its  half  serious  close : — 

"Beauty,  knowledge,  inure  not  to  me, — yet  there  are 

two  or  three  things  inure  to  me, 
I  have  nourish'd  the  wounded  and  sooth'd  many  a 

dying  soldier, 
And  at  intervals  waiting  or  in  the  midst  of  camp 

composed  these  songs." 

Some  are  descriptive  with  ideal  truth  underneath, 
such  as  /  saw  Old  General  at  Bay,  and  Delicate  Cluster. 
Others,  again,  display  fancy,  as  The  Dying  Veteran, 
and  Yonnondio,  the  last  ending  impressively;  and  one, 
at  least,  Aboard  at  a  Ship's  Helm,  has  imagination. 

Whitman  had  a  mind  of  great  power, — so  far  he 
ought  to  have  the  homage  that  he  has  received  at 
home  as  well  as  from  abroad.  Still  we  may  be  not 
less  firm  in  believing,  on  account  of  his  disregard  of 
the  broad  canons  of  literary  form,  and  still  more  of 
ideas,  that  praise  of  him  should  be  moderate, 
although,  with  less  disdain  of  literary  form  he  would 
certainly  have  been  a  much  larger  and  more  impor 
tant  figure  in  American  literature  than  he  can  now 
be  considered. 

THE  FIRST  DANDELION. 

Simple  and  fresh  and  fair  from  winter's  close  emerging, 
As  if  no  artifice  of  fashion,  business,  politics,  had  ever 

been, 
Forth  from  its  sunny  nook  of  shelter'd  grass — innocent, 

golden,  calm  as  the  dawn, 
The  spring's  first  dandelion  shows  its  trustful  face. 


no  American  Song. 

THE  SHIP  STARTING. 

Lo,  the  unbounded  sea, 
On  its  breast  a  ship  starting,  spreading  all  sails,  carrying 

even  her  moonsails, 
The  pennant  is  flying  aloft  as  she  speeds  she  speeds  so 

stately — below  emulous  waves  press  forward, 
They  surround  the  ship  with  shining  curving    motions 

and  foam. 

WHAT  THINK  YOU  I  TAKE  MY  PEN  IN  HAND  ? 

What  think  you  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  record  ? 

The  battle-ship,  perfect-model'd,  majestic,  that  I  saw  pass 

the  offing  to-day  under  full  sail  ? 
The  splendors  of  the  past  day  ?  or  the  splendor  of  the 

night  that  envelops  me  ? 
Or  the  vaunted  glory  and  growth  of  the  great  city  spread 

around  me  ? — no  ; 
But  merely  of  two  simple  men  I  saw  to-day  on  the  pier  in 

the  midst  of  the  crowd,  parting  the  parting  of  dear 

friends, 

The  one  to  remain  hung  on  the  other's  neck  and  passion 
ately  kiss'd  him, 
While  the  one  to  depart  tightly  prest  the  one  to  remain  in 

his  arms. 

SOMETIMES  WITH  ONE  I  LOVE. 

Sometimes  with  one  I  love  I  fill  myself  with  rage  for  fear 

I  effuse  unreturn'd  love, 
But  now  I  think  there  is  no  unreturn'd  love,  the  pay  is 

certain  one  way  or  another, 
(I  loved  a  certain  person  ardently  and  my  love  was  not 

return'd, 
Yet  out  of  that  I  have  written  these  songs.) 


Whitman.  m 

RECORDERS  AGES  HENCE. 

Recorders  ages  hence, 

Come,  I  will  take  you  down  underneath  this  impassive 

exterior,  I  will  tell  you  what  to  say  of  me, 
Publish  my  name  and  hand  up  my  picture  as  that  of  the 

tenderest  lover, 
The  friend  the  lover's  portrait,  of  whom  his  friend  his 

lover  was  fondest, 
Who  was  not  proud  of  his  songs,  but  of  the  measureless 

ocean  of  love  within  him,  and  freely  pour'd  it 

forth, 
Who  often  walk'd  lonesome  walks  thinking  of  his  dear 

friends,  his  lovers, 
Who  pensive  away  from  one  he  lov'd  often  lay  sleepless 

and  dissatisfied  at  night, 
Who  knew  too  well  the  sick,  sick  dread  lest  the  one  he 

lov'd  might  secretly  be  indifferent  to  him, 
Whose  happiest  days  were  far  away  through  fields,  in 

woods,  on  hills,  he  and  another  wandering,  hand  in 

hand,  they  twain  apart  from  other  men, 
Who  oft  as  he  saunter'd  the  streets  curv'd  with  his  arm 

the  shoulder  of  his  friend,  while  the  arm  of  his 

friend  rested  upon  him  also. 

TO  A  CERTAIN  CIVILIAN. 

Did  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me  ? 

Did  you  seek  the  civilian's  peaceful  and  languishing 
rhymes  ? 

Did  you  find  what  I  sang  erewhile  so  hard  to  follow  ? 

Why  I  was  not  singing  erewhile  for  you  to  follow,  to  un 
derstand, — nor  am  I  now  ; 

(I  have  been  born  of  the  same  as  the  war  was  born, 


H2  American  Song. 

The  drum-corps'  rattle  is  ever  to  me  sweet  music,  I  love 
well  the  martial  dirge, 

With  slow  wail  and  convulsive  throb  leading  the  officer's 
funeral ;) 

What  to  such  as  you  anyhow  such  a  poet  as  I  ?  there 
fore  leave  my  works, 

And  go  lull  yourself  with  what  you  can  understand,  and 
with  piano-tunes, 

For  I  lull  nobody,  and  you  will  never  understand  me. 

NOT  YOUTH  PERTAINS  TO  ME. 

Not  youth  pertains  to  me, 

Nor  delicatesse,  I  cannot  beguile  the  time  with  talk, 
Awkward  in  the  parlor,  neither  a  dancer  nor  elegant, 
In  the  learn'd  coterie  sitting  constrain'd  and  still,  for 

learning  inures  not  to  me, 
Beauty,  knowledge,  inure  not  to  me — yet  there  are  two  or 

three  things  inure  to  me, 
I  have  nourish'd  the  wounded  and  sooth'd  many  a  dying 

soldier, 

And  at  intervals  waiting,  or  in  the  midst  of  camp, 
Composed  these  songs. 

I  SAW  OLD  GENERAL  AT  BAY. 

I  saw  old  General  at  bay, 

(Old  as  he  was,  his  gray  eyes  yet  shone  out  in  battle  like 
stars), 

His  small  force  was  now  completely  hemm'd  in,  in  his 
works, 

He  call'd  for  volunteers  to  run  the  enemy's  lines,  a  des 
perate  emergency, 


Whitman.  113 

I  saw  a  hundred  and  more  step  forth  from  the  ranks,  but 

two  or  three  were  selected, 
I  saw  them  receive  their  orders  aside,  they  listen'd  with 

care,  the  adjutant  was  very  grave, 
I  saw  them  depart  with  cheerfulness,  freely  risking  their 

lives. 

DELICATE  CLUSTER. 

Delicate  cluster  !  flag  of  teeming  life  ! 

Covering  all  my  lands — all  my  sea-shores  lining  ! 

Flag  of  death  !  (how  I  watch'd  you  through  the  smoke  of 

battle  pressing  ! 

How  I  heard  you  flap  and  rustle,  cloth  defiant !) 
Flag  cerulean — sunny  flag,  with  the  orbs  of  night  dappled  ! 
Ah  my  silvery  beauty — ah  my  woolly  white  and  crimson  ! 
Ah  to  sing  the  song  of  you,  my  matron  mighty  ! 
My  sacred  one,  my  mother. 

THE    DYING    VETERAN. 

(A  Long  Island  incident — early  part  of  the  present  century.) 

Amid  these  days  of  order,  ease,  prosperity, 

Amid  the  current  songs  of  beauty,  peace,  decorum, 

I  cast  a  reminiscence  (likely  't  will  offend  you, 

I  heard  it  in  my  boyhood  ;) — More  than  a  generation 

since, 
A  queer  old   savage  man,  a  fighter  under  Washington 

himself, 
(Large,    brave,    cleanly,  hot-blooded,  no  talker,  rather 

spiritualistic, 
Had  fought  in  the    ranks— fought  well — had   been  all 

through  the  Revolutionary  war,) 


U4  American  Song. 

Lay    dying — sons,   daughters,   church-deacons,  lovingly 

tending  him, 
Sharping  their  sense,  their  ears,  towards  his  murmuring, 

half-caught  words  : 

"  Let  me  return  again  to  my  war-days, 
To  the  lights  and  scenes — to  forming  the  line  of  battle, 
To  the  scouts  ahead  reconnoitering, 
To  the  cannons,  the  grim  artillery  ; 
To  the  galloping  aids,  carrying  orders, 
To  the  wounded,  the  fallen,  the  heat,  the  suspense, 
The  perfume  strong,  the  smoke,  the  deafening  noise  ; 
Away  with  your  life  of  peace  ! — your  joys  of  peace  ! 
Give  me  my  old  wild  battle-life  again  !  " 

YONNONDIO. 

(The  sense  of  the  word  is  lament  for  the  aborigines.     It  is  an  Iro- 
quois  term,  and  has  been  used  for  a  personal  name.) 

A  song,  a  poem  of  itself — the  word  itself  a  dirge, 
Amid  the  wilds,  the  rocks,  the  storm  and  wintry  night, 
To  me  such  misty,  strange  tableaux  the  syllables  calling 

up; 
Yonnondio — I  see,  far  in  the  west   or  north,  a  limitless 

ravine,  with  plains  and  mountains  dark, 
I  see  swarms  of  stalwart  chieftains,  medicine-men,  and 

warriors, 
As  flitting  by  like  clouds  of  ghosts,  they  pass  and  are 

gone  in  the  twilight, 

(Race  of  the  woods,  the  landscapes  free,  and  the  falls  ! 
No  picture,  poem,  statement,  passing  them  to  the  future  :) 
Yonnondio  !     Yonnondio  ! — unlimn'd  they  disappear  ; 
To-day  gives  place  and  fades — the  cities,  farms,  factories 

fade  : 


Whitman.  115 

A  muffled    sonorous    sound,   a  wailing  word  is  borne 

through  the  air  for  a  moment, 
Then  blank  and  gone  and  still,  and  utterly  lost. 

ABOARD    AT   A    SHIP'S    HELM. 

Aboard  at  a  ship's  helm, 

A  young  steersman  steering  with  care. 

Through  fog  on  a  sea-coast  dolefully  ringing, 

An  ocean  bell — O  a  warning  bell,  rock'd  by  the  waves. 

O,  you  give  good  notice  indeed,  you  bell  by  the  sea- 
reefs  ringing, 
Ringing,  ringing,  to  warn  the  ship  from  its  wreck-place. 

For  as  on  the  alert,  O   steersman,  you  mind  the  loud 

admonition, 
The  bows  turn,  the  freighted  ship  tacking  speeds  away 

under  her  gray  sails, 
The  beautiful  and  noble  ship  with  all  her  precious  wealth 

speeds  away  gayly  and  safe. 

But  O  the  ship,  the  immortal  ship  !     O  ship  aboard  the 

ship  ! 
Ship  of  the  body,  ship  of  the  soul,  voyaging,  voyaging, 

voyaging. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


The  career  of  Bayard  Taylor  possesses  both  an 
historical  and  a  personal  interest.  It  is  worth  while 
to  note,  in  passing,  the  historical  interest  of  his  work, 
even  through  those  of  his  literary  efforts  which  were 
not  a  complete  success,  because  in  some  of  his  pro 
ductions  of  this  nature  he  was  chiefly  a  pioneer,  as  in 
his  plays,  his  novels,  and  in  a  portion  of  his  lyrics. 
Others  of  his  shorter  poems  have  a  greater  literary 
worth,  because  they  exhibit  Taylor  himself,  who,  as 
a  writer,  was,  above  everything  else,  sincere.  These 
shorter  poems  are  chiefly  on  the  subject  of  love, 
though  occasionally  the  poems  of  a  traveller. 

Bayard  Taylor  was  born  at  Kennet  Square,  Penn., 
January  n,  1825.  In  1842  he  became  apprentice  to 
a  printer;  in  1844-45  made  a  pedestrian  tour  in 
Europe;  in  1849  visited  California,  and  in  1851  set 
out  on  his  first  tour  through  the  East.  During  the 
succeeding  ten  years  he  made  various  long  journeys, 
descriptions  of  which  were  given  in  a  series  of  spirited 
and  informing  books  of  travel.  He  did  good  work 
for  journals,  principally  for  the  New  York  Tribune. 
He  died  December  19,  1878,  in  Berlin,  to  which  capi 
tal  he  had  been  appointed  minister  from  the  United 

116 


Taylor. 


States.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  engaged 
upon  a  life  of  Goethe. 

Of  his  lyric  poems,  which  are  the  most  interesting, 
The  Poet  in  the  East  is  one  of  Taylor's  happiest  con 
ceits.  The  rhythm  is  delicate,  the  imagination  at 
tended  by  fancy,  and  the  mood  and  place  close  to 
the  poet's  heart.  Of  kindred  love  poems,  On  the  Sea 
well  suggests  the  poetic  influence  of  night  on  the 
water,  and  Proposal  is  characterized  by  a  strong 
abruptness.  True  Love's  Time  of  Day  could  have 
been  written  by  no  one  but  a  man  of  exceeding  sen 
sitiveness.  Possession  is  firm  in  its  love  fancies.  The 
Bedouin  Song  has  been  popular,  but  it  is  of  a  cheaper 
texture  than  the  others.  In  his  poems  on  love,  it  is 
the  confidence  and  presumption  of  that  passion  that 
Taylor  expresses,  not  its  shrinking  and  bashfulness. 
Among  poems  on  other  subjects,  Hassan  to  His 
Mare  would  be  an  ideal  expression  of  love  for  a  pet 
animal,  were  it  not  marred  by  the  close  of  the  sec 
ond  stanza;  while  the  lines  On  Leaving  California 
could  not  have  been  truer  to  California  feeling.  Into 
his  lesser  lyrics  he  infused  a  warmth  and  richness  of 
color  which  is  drawn  from  his  own  healthy  nature, 
and  which  heightened  the  glow  of  his  work.  His 
odes  are  talented  performances  ;  the  Centennial  Ode 
is  something  more  ;  but  in  none  of  them  has  he 
showrn  such  special  adaptation,  as  was  possessed  by 
Lowell,  for  this  kind  of  poetry. 

The  Picture  of  St.  John  and  Lars,  though  not 
well  known,  are  by  no  means  failures.  Assuredly, 
a  long  poem  as  successfully  sustained  as  the  former 
is  must  always  command  respect  from  persons  of 


American  Song. 


poetic  taste  ;  and  all  through  it  Taylor  shows  that  he 
had  really  lived  in  and  breathed  the  art  atmosphere 
of  Italy.  Lars  opens  with  a  classic  carefulness  and 
beauty  in  its  suggestive  descriptions.  The  picture 
of  Brita  is  nobly  done.  As  a  whole  the  poem  is  un 
equal  and  rather  long,  but  in  the  better  parts  has 
sturdiness  and  originality.  The  translation  of  Faust 
should  be  mentioned  because  it  has  been  ranked  with 
the  great  translations  of  literature,  and  could  have 
been  produced  only  by  a  writer  who  possessed,  with 
poetic  understanding,  original  power. 

Taylor  has  not  proved  to  posterity  that  he  was  a 
man  of  genius.  That  he  had  poetic  taste  and  talent, 
however,  to  an  unusual  degree  is  indubitable.  A 
greater  poet  would  have  combined  the  grace  and 
severity  of  the  New  England  school  with  Taylor's 
free  and  democratic  sympathy  for  many  styles  and 
subjects.  Yet  Taylor,  besides  being  a  representa 
tive  in  poetry  of  certain  parts  of  the  American 
genius,  remains  an  historic  figure  as  a  man  of  letters. 


THE  POET  IN  THE  EAST. 

The  Poet  came  to  the  Land  of  the  East, 

When  spring  was  in  the  air  : 
The  Earth  was  dressed  for  a  wedding  feast, 

So  young  she  seemed,  and  fair  ; 
And  the  Poet  knew  the  Land  of  the  East, — 

His  soul  was  native  there. 

All  things  to  him  were  the  visible  forms 
Of  early  and  precious  dreams, — 


Taylor.  119 


Familiar  visions  that  mocked  his  quest 

Beside  the  Western  streams, 
Or  gleamed  in  the  gold  of  the  clouds,  unrolled 

In  the  sunset's  dying  beams. 

He  looked  above  in  the  cloudless  calm, 

And  the  Sun  sat  on  his  throne  ; 
The  breath  of  gardens,  deep  in  balm, 

Was  all  about  him  blown, 
And  a  brother  to  him  was  the  princely  Palm, 

For  he  cannot  live  alone. 

His  feet  went  forth  on  the  myrtled  hills, 
And  the  flowers  their  welcome  shed  ; 

The  meads  of  milk-white  asphodel 
They  knew  the  Poet's  tread, 

And  far  and  wide,  in  a  scarlet  tide, 
The  poppy's  bonfire  spread. 

And,  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun, 

The  Rose  sat  in  her  bower, 
With  a  passionate  thrill  in  her  crimson  heart — 

She  had  waited  for  the  hour  ! 
And,  like  a  bride's,  the  Poet  kissed 

The  lips  of  the  glorious  flower. 

Then,  the  Nightingale,  who  sat  above 

In  the  boughs  of  the  citron-tree, 
Sang  :  We  are  no  rivals,  brother  mine, 

Except  in  minstrelsy  ; 
For  the  rose  you  kissed  with  the  kiss  of  love 

Is  faithful  still  to  me. 


120  American  Song. 

And  further  sang  the  Nightingale  : 

Your  bower  not  distant  lies. 
I  heard  the  sound  of  a  Persian  lute 

From  the  jasmined  window  rise, 
And,  twin-bright  stars,  through  the  lattice-bars, 

I  saw  the  Sultana's  eyes. 

The  Poet  said  :  I  will  here  abide, 

In  the  Sun's  unclouded  door  ; 
Here  are  the  wells  of  all  delight 

On  the  lost  Arcadian  shore  : 
Here  is  the  light  on  sea  and  land, 

And  the  dream  deceives  no  more. 


ON  LEAVING  CALIFORNIA. 

O  fair  young  land,  the  youngest,  fairest  far 
Of  which  our  world  can  boast, — 

Whose  guardian  planet,  Evening's  silver  star 
Illumes  thy  golden  coast, — 


How  art  thou  conquered,  tamed  in  all  the  pride 

Of  savage  beauty  still  ! 
How  brought,  O  panther  of  the  splendid  hide, 

To  know  thy  master's  will  ! 


No  more  thou  sittest  on  thy  tawny  hills 

In  indolent  repose  ; 
Or  pour'st  the  crystal  of  a  thousand  rills 

Down  from  the  house  of  snows. 


Taylor. 


121 


But  where  the  wild  oats  wrapped  thy  knees  in  gold, 

The  plowman  drives  his  share, 
And  where,  through  canons  deep,  thy  streams  are  rolled, 

The  miner's  arm  is  bare. 

Yet  in  thy  lap,  thus  rudely  rent  and  torn, 

A  nobler  seed  shall  be  : 
Mother  of  mighty  men,  thou  shalt  not  mourn 

Thy  lost  virginity  ; 

Thy  human  children  shall  restore  the  grace 

Gone  with  thy  fallen  pines  : 
The  wild,  barbaric  beauty  of  thy  face 

Shall  round  to  classic  lines. 

And  Order,  Justice,  Social  Law  shall  curb 

Thy  untamed  energies  ; 
And  Art  and  Science,  with  their  dreams  superb, 

Replace  thine  ancient  ease. 

The  marble,  sleeping  in  thy  mountains  now, 

Shall  live  in  sculptures  rare  ; 
Thy  native  oak  shall  crown  the  sage's  brow, — 

Thy  bay,  the  poet's  hair. 

Thy  tawny  hills  shall  bleed  their  purple  wine, 

Thy  valleys  yield  their  oil  ; 
And  Music,  with  her  eloquence  divine, 

Persuade  thy  sons  to  toil. 

Till  Hesper,  as  he  trims  his  silver  beam, 

No  happier  land  shall  see, 
And  earth  shall  find  her  old  Arcadian  dream 

Restored  again  in  thee. 


SIDNEY  LANIER. 


Among  the  American  poets  of  the  younger  gener 
ation  who  have  passed  away  during  the  last  thirty 
years,  no  one  deserves  higher  encomium  than  Lanier. 
Materially,  fate  pinched  him,  but  whether  oppressed 
by  misfortune  or  cheered  by  success,  he  never  lost 
the  poetic  fire  within. 

Sidney  Lanier  was  born  at  Macon,  Georgia,  Febru 
ary  3,  1842.  His  earliest  poems  are  not  among  his 
best ;  although  some  of  his  verse  in  dialect  exhibits  a 
humor  which  was  repressed  in  his  later  literary  pro 
duction,  and  Nirvana  is  more  successful  in  seriousness 
than  is  often  the  case  with  an  early  poem  by  a  cele 
brated  author. 

There  is  something  about  the  verse  of  Lanier — 
defective  as  his  performance  is, — for  it  must  be  ac 
knowledged  that  he  was  not  always  equal  in  clear 
ness  and  literary  judgment, — that  inspires  respect 
from  every  lover  of  genius.  Even  where  he  was  not 
perfect,  he  showed,  as  in  Corn,  that  he  had  grasped 
firmly  the  distinction  in  poetics  between  the  small 
and  the  great.  Beside  this  rare  attainment,  or  gift, 
whichever  it  was,  Lanier,  even  in  early  work,  had 
reached  a  power  of  imagination  that  may  be  com- 


122 


Lanier.  123 

pared  not  unfavorably  with  that  of  Longfellow  be 
tween  his  thirty-third  and  thirty-seventh  years  ;  in  the 
minor  matters  of  verbal  imagination  and  onomato 
poeia  Lanier  was  at  times  greatly  Longfellow's 
superior. 

Lanier's  merits  as  a  poet  are  numerous  and  con 
siderable.  A  large  nature  like  his  could  not  express 
itself  trivially  or  in  narrow  limits.  He  has  done  well 
in  the  treatment  of  love,  philosophy,  mysticism, 
socialism,  in  the  ballad,  and  technically  in  melody 
and  harmony  of  rhythm. 

This  is  not  to  say  that  he  has  excelled  in  all  points 
alike  or  equally.  My  Springs  is  one  of  Lanier's  most 
beautiful  love  songs  ;  its  subject  is  not,  as  a  general 
thing,  too  commonly  or  too  well  treated.  Lanier's 
work  elsewhere  is  full  of  the  tenderest  love  passages. 
Yet  it  is  not  in  dealing  with  love  that  he  is  pre 
eminent. 

Nor  is  it  so  on  the  dubious  ground  of  poetry 
carrying  a  philosophical  message.  Here  Lanier  is  at 
fault  not  only  from  the  possibly  inherent  difficulty 
of  such  themes,  but  because  of  his  own  lack  of  spe 
cial  study  in  this  direction.  Clover  is  one  of  the 
plainest  of  these  didactic  poems;  but  in  this  as  in 
others,  is  obtruded  too  conscious  alliteration. 

So,  too,  in  Lanier's  employment  of  mysticism. 
There  is  really  no  good  reason,  theoretically  or  prac 
tically,  why  a  mystical  subject  is  not  suitable  for 
poetry,  provided  only  the  obstacles  be  surmounted. 
Lanier's  Acknowledgment  is  of  that  sort  of  mysticism 
which  when  uttered  with  any  fulness  in  poetry  is 
always  deserving  of  esteem  ;  even  though  Lanier,  or 


124  American  Song. 

any  other  American  poet,  has  not  yet  adjusted 
poetry  to  the  satisfactory  reflection  of  abstract  re 
ligious  thought. 

It  is  in  the  deep  music  of  Lanier's  line  that  his 
greatness  is  to  be  found.  Compare  the  Symphony, 
the  Revenge  of  Hamish,  or  the  Marshes  of  Glynn 
with  the  best  previous  American  verse ;  say  Long 
fellow's  Evangeline  or  Hiawatha,  Lowell's  Commem 
oration  Ode,  and  Whittier's  Barbara  FrietcJiie.  In 
harmony  of  sound,  I  believe,  Lanier  should  have  the 
preference  ;  he  was  a  musician  primarily,  they  were 
not.  That  the  knack  of  music  in  poetry  is  less  im 
portant  than  the  perfect  expression  of  the  finest  and 
noblest  ideas,  makes  him  on  the  whole  their  inferior. 
Even  so,  he  marks  an  epoch  in  American  verse  that 
makes  his  position  unique,  exceptional,  and  historic. 
For  poetry  at  its  highest  worth  must  not  only  con 
sist  of  the  best  ideas  and  conceptions,  but  must 
flow  in  the  best  rhythm.  Yet  the  best  rhythm  is  not 
easy  or  frequent.  It  exists  as  an  art  only  seldom  in 
a  language.  The  best  rhythm  has  depth  ;  it  underlies 
the  line  rather  than  floats  on  its  surface.  Its  masters 
in  English  verse  are  in  the  foremost  place,  the 
Elizabethan  dramatists  ;  also  Milton,  and  secondarily 
Tennyson.  Pope  or  Dryden  did  not  have  it  ;  they 
had  rather  the  knack  of  a  grasshopper-like  metre  that 
skips  jerkily  forth  here  and  there.  No  one  of  Ameri 
can  poets  previous  to  Lanier  possessed  fully  the 
stronger  rhythm.  Lanier  has  it,  not  perhaps  at  its 
virile  best,  and  often  mixed  with  something  artificial 
from  his  own  preconceptions  ;  but  he  has  it  after  all 
now  and  then,  and  has  it  clearly  and  strongly. 


Lanier.  125 

Lanier's  line  is  generous.  There  are  deep  places 
in  it ;  the  reader  takes  a  long  breath,  for  the  poet 
prefers  not  only  the  amplitude  of  the  pentameter, 
but  often  adds  an  additional  syllable. 

In  the  development  of  his  verse,  Lanier  finds  many 
new  harmonies.  The  Marshes  of  Glynn  shows  almost 
a  coloring  of  sound.  This  poem,  as  others  of 
Lanier's,  is  a  work  of  imagination,  and  deals  not  only 
with  single  shapes,  but  with  masses.  Tampa  Robbins 
is  a  vivid  study  also  of  musical  sensation.  The  Re 
venge  of  HamisJi  is,  perhaps,  to  be  placed  higher  than 
the  Symphony  and  the  rest  of  Lanier's  poems,  on  ac 
count  of  its  force,  its  concreteness,  its  verbal  imagina 
tion,  and  its  vigorous  style. 

After  years  of  protracted  struggle  with  a  vital 
malady,  Lanier  died  at  Lynn,  N.  C.,  Sept.  7,  1881. 
As  he  was  then  only  thirty-nine,  but  had  still  shown 
pre-eminent  individual  attainment,  his  powers,  it  may 
be  fairly  assumed,  had  not  reached  their  full  height. 
The  little  poem,  Opposition,  indicates  what  might 
have  been  the  outcome,  morally,  in  his  verse.  He 
was  naturally  hopeful,  but  as  far  from  shallow 
optimism  as  from  shallow  pessimism.  His  own 
physical  and  intellectual  pain  afforded  him  experi 
ence  which  was  transmuted  into  sympathy  for  the 
suffering  of  others.  For  himself,  he  was  triumphantly 
joyous  through  his  own  trials ;  while  for  others 
he  knew  that  bitter  compassion  that  perplexes  while 
it  sustains  the  best  Christianity  of  to-day. 


Special  References :  Lanier's  Poetical   Works,  with  an  introduc 
tion  by  W.  H.  Ward.     Chas.  Scribner's  Sons. 


i26  American  Song. 

THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH. 

It  was   three  slim   does   and  a  ten-tined   buck   in   the 

bracken  lay  ; 

And  all  of  a  sudden  the  sinister  smell  of  a  man, 
Awaft  on  a  wind-shift,  wavered  and  ran 
Down  the  hill-side  and  sifted  along  through  the  bracken 
and  passed  that  way. 

Then  Nan  got  a-tremble  at  nostril ;   she  was  the  dainti 
est  doe  ; 

In  the  print  of  her  velvet  flank  on  the  velvet  fern 
She  reared,  and  rounded  her  ears  in  turn. 
Then  the  buck  leapt  up,  and  his  head  as  a  king's  to  a 
crown  did  go. 

Full  high  in  the  breeze,  and  he  stood  as  if  Death  had 

the  form  of  a  deer  ; 

And  the  two  slim  does  long  lazily  stretching  arose, 
For  their  day-dream  slovvlier  came  to  a  close, 
Till  they  woke  and  were  still,  breath-bound  with  wait 
ing  and  wonder  and  fear. 

Then  Alan  the  huntsman  sprang  over  the  hillock,  the 

hounds  shot  by, 
The  does  and  the  ten-tined  buck  made  a  marvellous 

bound, 

The  hounds  swept  after  with  never  a  sound, 
But  Alan  loud  winded  his  horn  in  sign   that  the  quarry 
was  nigh. 

For  at  dawn  of  that  day  proud  Maclean  of  Lochbuy  to 

the  hunt  had  waxed  wild, 

And  he  cursed  at  old  Alan  till  Alan  fared  off  with 
the  hounds 


Lanier.  127 

For  to  drive  him  the  deer  to  the  lower  glen-grounds  : 
"  I  will  kill  a  red  deer  "  quoth  Maclean,  "  in  the  sight  of 
the  wife  and  the  child." 

So  gayly  he  paced  with  the  wife  and  the  child  to  his 

chosen  stand  ; 
But  he  hurried  tall   Hamish   the   henchman   ahead : 

"  Go  turn," 

Cried  Maclean — "  if  the  deer  seek  to  cross  to  the  burn, 
Do  thou  turn  them  to  me  :  nor  fail,  lest  thy  back  be  as 
red  as  thy  hand." 

Now   hard-fortuned  Hamish,  half  blown  of  his   breath 

with  the  height  of  the  hill, 
Was  white  in  the  face  when  the  ten-tined  buck  and  the 

does 

Drew  leaping  to  burn-ward  ;  huskily  rose 
His  shouts  and   his   nether   lip  twitched,   and  his  legs 
were  o'er-weak  for  his  will. 

So  the  deer  darted  lightly  by  Hamish  and  bounded  away 

to  the  burn. 
But  Maclean  never  bating  his  watch  tarried  waiting 

below. 

Still  Hamish  hung  heavy  with  fear  for  to  go 
All  the  space  of  an  hour  ;  then  he  went,  and  his  face  was 
greenish  and  stern, 

And  his  eye  sat  back  in  the  socket,  and  shrunken  the  eye 
balls  shone, 

As  withdrawn  from  a  vision  of  deeds  it  were  shame  to 
see. 


128  American  Song. 

"  Now,  now,  grim  henchman,  what  is  't  with  thee  ?" 
Brake  Maclean,  and  his  wrath  rose  red  as  a  beacon  the 
wind  hath  upblown. 

"  Three   does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  made  out,"    spoke 

Hamish,  full  mild, 
"  And  I  ran  for  to  turn,  but  my  breath  it  was  blown, 

and  they  passed ; 

I  was  weak,  for  ye  called  ere  I  broke  me  my  fast." 
Cried  Maclean  :  "  Now  a  ten-tined  buck  in  the  sight  of 
the  wife  and  the  child 

I  had  killed  if  the  gluttonous  kern  had  not  wrought  me  a 

snail's  own  wrong  !  " 

Then  he  sounded  and  down  came  kinsmen  and  clans 
men  all : 

"  Ten  blows,  for  ten  tine,  on  his  back  let  fall, 
And  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow  not  the  bite  of 
the  thong  ! " 

So  Hamish  made  bare,  and  took  him  his  strokes  ;  at  the 

last  he  smiled. 
"  Now  I  '11  to  the  burn,"  quoth  Maclean,  "  for  it  still 

may  be, 

If  a  slimmer-paunched  henchman  will  hurry  with  me, 
I  shall  kill  me  the  ten-tined  buck  for  a  gift  to  the  wife 
and  the  child  !  " 


Then  the  clansmen  departed,  by  this  path  and  that  ;  and 

over  the  hill 

Sped  Maclean  with  an  onward  wrath  for  an  inward 
shame  ; 


Lanier.  129 

And  that  place  of  the  lashing  full  quiet  became  ; 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  stood  sad  ;  and  blood-backed 
Hamish  sat  still. 

But  look  !  red  Hamish  has  risen  ;  quick  about  and  about 

turns  he. 
"There  is  none  betwixt  me  and  the  crag- top  !"  he 

screams  under  breath. 
Then,  livid  as  Lazarus  lately  from  death, 
He  snatches  the  child  from  the  mother,  and  clambers  the 
crag  toward  the  sea. 

Now  the  mother  drops  breath  ;   she  is  dumb,  and  her 

heart  goes  dead  for  a  space, 
Till    the    motherhood,    mistress    of    death,    shrieks, 

shrieks  through  the  glen, 

And  that  place  of  the  lashing  is  live  with  men, 
And  Maclean,  and  the  gillie  that  told  him,  dash  up  in  a 
desperate  race. 

Not  a  breath's  time  for  asking  ;  an  eye-glance  reveals 

all  the  tale  untold. 
They  follow  mad  Hamish  afar  up  the  crag  toward  the 

sea, 

And  the  lady  cries  :  "  Clansmen,  run  for  a  fee  ! — 
Yon  castle  and  lands  to  the  two  first  hands  that  shall 
hook  him  and  hold 

Fast  Hamish  back  from  the  brink  !  " — and  ever  she  flies 

up  the  steep, 

And    the   clansmen  pant,   and   they  sweat,  and  they 
jostle  and  strain. 


i3°  American  Song. 

But,  mother,  't  is  vain  ;  but,  father,  't  is  vain  ; 
Stern  Hamish  stands  bold  on  the  brink,  and  dangles  the 
child  o'er  the  deep. 

Now  a  faintness  falls  on  the  men  that  run,  and  they  all 

stand  still. 
And  the  wife  prays  Hamish  as  if  he  were  God,  on  her 

knees, 
Crying  :    "  Hamish  !    O    Hamish !    but    please,    but 

please 

For  to  spare  him  !  "  and  Hamish  still  dangles  the  child, 
with  a  wavering  will. 

On  a  sudden  he  turns  ;  with  a  sea-hawk  scream,   and  a 

gibe,  and  a  song, 
Cries  :  "  So  ;  I  will  spare  ye  the  child  if,  in  sight  of  ye 

all, 

Ten  blows  on  Maclean's  bare  back  shall  fall, 
And  ye  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow  not  at  the 
bite  of  the  thong  !  " 

Then  Maclean  he  set  hardly  his  tooth  to  his  lip  that  his 

tooth  was  red, 
Breathed  short  for  a  space,  said  :  "  Nay,  but  it  never 

shall  be  ! 

Let  me  hurl  off  the  damnable  hound  in  the  sea  !  " 
But  the  wife  :  "Can  Hamish  go  fish  us  the  child  from 
the  sea,  if  dead  ? 

Say  yea  ! — Let  them   lash  me,  Hamish  ? " — "  Nay  !  " — 

"  Husband,  the  lashing  will  heal  ; 

But,  oh,  who  will  heal  me  the  bonny  sweet  bairn  in  his 
grave  ? 


Lanier.  13* 

Could   ye   cure   me   my   heart   with   the   death   of  a 

knave  ? 

Quick  !    love  !    I  will  bare  thee — so — kneel  !  "      Then 
Maclean  'gan  slowly  to  kneel 

With  never  a  word,  till  presently  downward  he  jerked  to 

the  earth. 
Then  the  henchman — he  that  smote  Hamish — would 

tremble  and  lag ; 
"  Strike,  hard  !  "  quoth  Hamish,   full  stern,  from  the 

crag; 

Then  he  struck  him,  and  "  One  !  "  sang  Hamish,  and 
danced  with  the  child  in  his  mirth. 

And  no  man  spake  beside  Hamish  ;   he  counted  each 

stroke  with  a  song. 
When  the  last  stroke  fell,  then  he  moved  him  a  pace 

down  the  height, 
And    he    held    forth    the   child   in   the   heartaching 

sight 

Of  the  mother,  and  looked  all  pitiful  grave,  as  repenting 
a  wrong. 

And  there  as  the  motherly  arms  stretched  out  with  the 

thanksgiving  prayer — 
And  there  as  the  mother  crept  up  with  a  fearful  swift 

pace, 

Till  her  finger  nigh  felt  of  the  bairnie's  face — 
In  a  flash  fierce  Hamish  turned  round  and  lifted  the 
child  in  the  air, 

And  sprang  with  the  child  in  his  arms  from  the  horrible 
height  in  the  sea, 


i32  American  Song. 

Shrill  screeching,  "  Revenge  !  "  in  the  wind-rush  ;  and 

pallid  Maclean, 

Age-feeble  with  anger  and  impotent  pain, 
Crawled  up  on  the  crag,  and  lay  flat,  and  locked  hold  of 

dead  roots  of  a  tree — 

And   gazed  hungrily  o'er,   and  the  blood  from  his  back 

drip — dripped  in  the  brine, 
And   a   sea-hawk   flung  down   a  skeleton  fish  as  he 

flew, 

And  the  mother  stared  white  on  the  waste  of  blue, 
And  the  wind  drove  a  cloud  to  seaward,  and  the  sun 
began  to  shine. 


SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE. 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 
Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 

The  wilful  waterweed  held  me  thrall, 

The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 

The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 


Lanier.  133 

The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 
Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said  :   Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold, 
Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook-stone 

Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 

And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone — 

Crystals  clear  or  a  cloud  with  mist 

Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst — 

Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  cleft  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
Avail ;  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 


i34  American  Song. 

And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

TAMPA  ROBINS.1 

The  robin  laughed  in  the  orange-tree  : 
"  Ho,  windy  North,  a  fig  for  thee  : 
While  breasts  are  red  and  wings  are  bold 
And  green  trees  wave  us  globes  of  gold, 
Time's  scythe  shall  reap  but  bliss  for  me 
— Sunlight,  song,  and  the  orange-tree. 

"  Burn,  golden  globes  in  leafy  sky, 
My  orange-planets  :  crimson  I 
Will  shine  and  shoot  among  the  spheres 
(Blithe  meteor  that  no  mortal  fears) 
And  thrid  the  heavenly  orange-tree 
With  orbits  bright  of  minstrelsy. 

"  If  that  I  hate  wild  winter's  spite — 
The  gibbet  trees,  the  world  in  white, 
The  sky  but  gray  wind  over  a  grave — 
Why  should  I  ache,  the  season's  slave  ? 
I  "11  sing  from  the  top  of  the  orange-tree 
Gramercy,  winter's  tyranny. 

"  I  '11  south  with  the  sun  and  keep  my  clime  ; 
My  wing  is  king  of  the  summer-time  ; 
My  breast  to  the  sun  his  torch  shall  hold  ; 
And  I  '11  call  down  through  the  green  and  gold 
Time,  take  thy  scythe,  reap  bliss  for  me, 
Bestir  thee  under  Ihe  orange-tree." 

1  Tampa,  a  bay  on  the  west  side  of  Florida. 


PART  II. 
i.  Forerunners. 

IN  a  brief  general  survey  of  the  field  of  what  I 
will  call  prse-classic  American  literature,  discussion 
of  that  portion  containing  the  works  of  writers  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  can  hardly 
be  either  interesting  in  itself  or  fertile  in  its  results. 
Among  the  commonplace  of  those  times,  a  gleam  of 
personality  appeared  only  occasionally  in  poetry,  as 
in  a  lyric  of  Freneau's  like  The  Wild  Honeysuckle. 

It  is  different  with  authors  during  the  first  genera 
tion  in  the  nineteenth  century.  In  the  rarity  of  the 
intellectual  atmosphere,  literature  was  still  beginning 
to  form.  In  prose,  Irving  and  Cooper  had  originated 
American  fiction.  In  poetry,  Bryant,  both  by  ex 
ample  and  by  precept,  was  pointing  the  way  onward, 
though  Bryant's  early  development  in  poetic  art 
makes  it  necessary  to  consider  him  not  here  but 
among  the  "  Classics." 

Other  producers  of  verse  at  this  time  were  quite 
various  in  merit.  Very  few  of  them  left  a  lasting 
name,  and  are  principally  interesting  historically. 
Some  of  them,  such  as  Sprague  and  Neal,  are  now 
indeed  nothing  more  than  names.  Others  are  more 

135 


is6  American  Song. 

fortunate  through  possessing  associations  which  en 
able  their  fame  to  survive.  R.  H.  Dana  was  formerly 
called  a  critic  and  a  poet ;  he  is  now  known  as 
Bryant's  friend,  and  as  one  of  those  who  had  the 
best  poetical  judgment  among  the  men  of  his  time. 
Drake  wrote  The  American  Flag  and  The  Culprit 
Fay;  but  we  seem  to  know  more  of  the  man  him 
self  by  reading  concerning  him  his  associate  Halleck's 
memorial  lines.  Percival  will  be  far  more  likely  to 
be  remembered  through  Lowell's  essay  on  Percival 
than  by  all  the  poetry  he  himself  ever  wrote.  Such 
are  a  few  of  the  attitudes  with  which  Time  surveys 
those  writers  who  in  their  owrn  day  had  been  greeted 
with  loud  applause ! 

Two  of  the  "  Forerunners,"  however,  have  left  a 
fame  that  is  more  than  shadowy.  Here  the  men 
behind  the  works  come  out  distinctly  as  literary 
figures ;  and  the  name  of  each  stands  for  a  person 
ality  that  is  quite  remarkable.  The  first  of  the  two, 
in  point  of  time  as  well  as  of  poetic  ability,  Fitz- 
Greene  Halleck,  was  the  finest  and  most  typical  poet 
of  that  day.1  In  collaboration  with  Drake  he  printed 
in  1819,  under  the  title  of  The  Croakers,  a  series  of 
poetical  satires  upon  public  characters  of  the  period, 
a  series  which  achieved  an  immediate  local  fame  ;  but 
Halleck  is  now  better  known  by  Marco  Bozsaris  and 
Burns.  His  own  character  may  still  better  keep  him 
a  lasting  name.  He  lacked,  however,  the  intellectual 
independence  and  the  creative  genius  which  is  un 
hindered  by  the  wearing  and  destructive  effect  of 
drudgery.  The  other  writer,  Willis,  was  a  man  of 

1  Bryant  is  a  poet  of  the  century. 


Foreru  n  ners.  1 3  7 

definite  and,  on  the  whole,  pleasing  personality,  a 
man  whose  light,  chatty  manner  covered  a  heart  and 
a  will  that  made  him  a  favorite ;  but  Willis,  still  less 
than  Halleck,  had  the  genius  which  constitutes  a 
great  writer. 

A  strong  extrinsic  interest  and  importance,  how 
ever,  attaches  to  the  group  as  a  whole ;  in  them, 
better  than  in  those  writers  whose  works  are  more 
read  by  posterity, — Bryant,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and 
their  compeers, — are  seen  the  unfavorable  and  de 
teriorating  literary  conditions  in  this  country  during 
the  first  half  of  the  century.  The  "  Forerunners  " 
show,  for  example,  what  the  consequences  were,  of 
writers  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  century  not  finding 
letters  alone  sufficient  for  a  livelihood.  For  it  may 
be  observed  that  the  "  Forerunners"  preferred,  instead 
of  the  letters,  the  livelihood  ;  whereas,  it  maybe  said, 
that  among  the  "  Classics,"  Poe,  who  lived  during  this 
period,  preferred,  as  seen  by  his  suffering  and  death, 
instead  of  the  livelihood,  the  letters.  Another  dis 
advantage  was  that  foreign  influences,  especially 
imitation  of  foreign  models,  were  too  strong  as  com 
pared  with  native  inspiration ;  and  this  ill  wind  blew 
no  good,  so  far  as  independent  thought  was  con 
cerned,  to  the  writers  of  either  group. 

Since,  therefore,  no  writer  of  this  group  escaped 
the  literary  disadvantages  of  that  time,  a  study  of 
the  group,  while  interesting  in  itself,  will  also  dispel 
the  glamor  which,  hanging  over  the  success  of  the 
"  Classics,"  hides  the  difficulties  under  which  the 
members  of  the  latter  group  contended  and  which 
they  so  largely  overcame ;  and  it  will  justly  be  in- 


138  American  Song. 

ferred  that  the  "  Classics,"  too,  must  have  been  ham 
pered  and  prevented  from  attaining  a  greater  height. 
And  if  the  study  of  the  "  Forerunners  "  enables  a  stu 
dent  to  realize  this  fact,  it  will  have  done  no  slight 
thing  ;  for  it  will  have  opened  his  eyes  to  the  truth 
that  genius  is  exposed  to  at  least  as  many  difficul 
ties  as  talent,  and  will  lead  him  a  long  way  from  a 
merely  admiring  view  of  renowned  poets  to  a  critical 
consideration  of  their  permanent  value  as  modified 
by  the  time  and  conditions  in  which  they  lived. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


Philip  Freneau  was  the  most  distinguished  poet 
of  the  revolutionary  time.  He  was  born  at  New 
York,  January  2,  1752,  and  was  a  graduate  of  Prince 
ton  College.  Part  of  his  life  was  spent  in  journalism 
and  book-writing,  part  of  it  on  the  sea.  He  served 
with  conspicuous  patriotism  in  the  army  during  the 
Revolution,  during  which  he  was  taken  prisoner. 
Freneau  found  a  subject  for  his  verse  in  his  personal 
knowledge  of  the  war.  He  died  near  Freehold,  N. 
J.,  December  18,  1832. 

Freneau  is  of  interest  as  one  of  the  first  poets  in 
America  to  show  signs  of  personality  in  literary 
style.  His  verse  in  general  may  also  be  studied  as 
helping  to  the  knowledge  of  the  literary  conditions 
of  the  time,  and  as  showing  the  crudity  of  taste  then 
that  was,  however,  mitigated  somewhat  by  the 
study  here  and  there  of  the  eighteenth-century 
poets  of  England. 

THE  WILD  HONEYSUCKLE. 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouched  thy  honied  blossoms  blow, 

Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet ; 
139 


140  American  Song. 


No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 

And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by  ; 

Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 

Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay, 
I  grieve  to  see  thy  future  doom  ; 

They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay, 
The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom  ; 
Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power, 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews, 

At  first  thy  little  being  came  ; 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 

For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same  ; 

The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 

The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 


RICHARD    HENRY   DANA. 


Richard  Henry  Dana  was  one  of  the  earliest 
lovers  of  poetry  in  this  country  who  at  the  same 
time  wrote  good  poetry  himself.  Dana  was  born 
at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  August  15,  1787.  He  entered 
Harvard,  and  later  practised  law.  In  childhood  he 
had  acquired  a  love  of  nature ;  in  youth  he  devel 
oped  passion  for  contemplation ;  and  in  full  man 
hood  he  became  at  his  time  a  leading  exponent  of 
the  higher  intellectual  life,  striving  to  propagate  a 
taste  in  America  for  the  then  recently  published 
works  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  Dana's  poetic 
study  effected  his  own  accomplishments  in  verse, 
which  in  their  spiritual  purpose  were  good,  and  in 
their  descriptions  of  places  familiar  to  him,  were 
sincere  and  true.  Dana  died  at  Boston,  February  2, 
1879-  

THE    LITTLE    BEACH-BIRD. 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  thy  melancholy  voice, 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 
Oh  !  rather,  bird,  with  me 
Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 
141 


American  Song. 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 

As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea  ; 

Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 

As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 

The  doom  of  us.     Thy  wail, — 

What  doth  it  bring  to  me  ? 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 

Restless  and  sad  ;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 

With  the  motion  and  the  roar 

Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 

One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 

The  Mystery— the  Word. 

Of  thousands,  thou,  both  sepulchre  and  pall 
Old  ocean  !     A  requiem  o'er  the  dead 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells, — 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more. 
Come,  quit  with  me,  the  shore 
For  gladness  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 


Fitz-Greene  Halleck  was  one  of  the  most  famous 
poets  of  his  day.  He  was  born  at  Guilford,  Conn., 
July  8,  1790.  His  education  and  his  business 
vocation  were  not  favorable  to  his  development  as  a 
poet ;  and  his  inspiration  seems  rather  to  have  been 
secondary  than  original,  being  imparted  by  personal 
contact  with  his  friend  Drake  or  by  the  reading  of 
foreign  poets,  such  as  Burns  and  Campbell.  Bryant, 
whose  criticism  of  his  intimates  was  sometimes  less 
sure  than  friendly,  has  praised  Halleck  highly,  but 
he  is  hardly  read  now.  A  few  of  his  poems,  however, 
such  as  Burns,  are  full  of  fine,  manly  passages  ;  and 
of  his  nobility  as  a  man  his  memorial  exists  in  the 
reminiscences  and  in  the  biographies  of  him  by  his 
friends. 


BURNS.1 

Wild  rose  of  Alloway,2  my  thanks  ; 

Thou  'mindst  me  of  that  autumn  noon 

1  Robert  Burns,  a  celebrated  Scotch  poet,  born  near  the  town  of 
Ayr,  in  1759. 

2  Alloway  Kirk,  the  scene  of  Burns's  Tarn  d  Shanter,  is  situated 
near  the  poet's  birthplace. 

143 


H4  American  Song. 

When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 
And  braes1  o' bonny  Boon."  u 

Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief, 

We  've  crossed  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  withered — flower  and  leaf. 

And  wilt  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay — 

And  withered  my  life's  leaf  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway  ? 

Not  so  his  memory,  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long, 

His — who  a  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song. 

The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory  in  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she's  canonized  his  mind  ; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind. 

I  've  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed 
Where  the  Bard-peasant  first  drew  breath  ; 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

1  Brae,  declivity  or  broken  ground. 

2  Doon,  a  river  not  far  from  the  birthplace  of  Burns,  flowing  into 
the  Firth  of  Clyde. 


Plalleck.  H5 


And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 
His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  Bard-peasant  given  ! 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour  ; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  power  ; 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 

Ascendancy  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong  ; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions,  then 

Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires. 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death  ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns'  are  there  ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek  ; 


American  Song. 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 

Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 
And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 

The  Poet's  mastery. 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours  ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage-hearth  ? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  is  sung  ! 

Pure  hopes  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's  "  !  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

1  Logan  Water,   a  rivulet  in  the  parish  of   Kirkpatrick,  Fleming, 
Scotland,  celebrated  in  modern  and  ancient  Scottish  song. 


Halleck.  147 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
With  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Burns,  though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 

Through  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel  ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 

His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 
And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 

Pride  of  his  fellow  men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave  ; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard  !  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 


148  American  Song. 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man  !  a  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 
Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still  as  on  his  funeral-day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 

The  Delphian  '  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 

Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour  ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 

Is  lit  by  fortune's  dimmer  star, 
Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 

From  countries  near  and  far  ; 

1  Delphi,  the  ancient  oracle  of  Apollo,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Par 
nassus  in  Greece. 


Hal  leek.  149 

Pilgrims  whose  wandering  feet  have  pressed 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
My  own  green  forest-land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,1  and  wooded  Ayr,* 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries  ! a 
The  Poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and  urns  ? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns  ? 

1  Nith,  a  river  flowing  from  Ayr  into  Solway  Firth,  eight  miles 
south  of  Dumfries. 

"  Ayr,  see  note  on  Burns. 

3  Dumfries,  Burns  lived  here  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life, 
and  his  remains  were  transferred  hither. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 


The  life  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake  was  cut  short 
at  the  age  of  twenty-five.  He  showed,  however,  an 
early  ability  in  the  creation  of  fanciful  poetry  that 
gave  him  a  place  among  the  writers  of  his  time. 
Drake  was  born  in  New  York  City,  August  17, 
1795.  His  first  important  literary  undertaking  was 
the  part  he  took  in  the  "  Croaker  "  papers,  but  more 
interesting  now,  however,  are  his  American  Flag  and 
TJte  Culprit  Fay.  Drake  died  in  New  York,  Sep 
tember  21,  1820. 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
150 


Drake.  15* 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 
Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 
When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  't  is  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 


i52  American  Song. 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home  ! 
By  angel  hands  to  valor  given  ; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 
And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 
Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 
And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 


JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 


James  Gates  Percival  was  a  man  of  uncommon 
miscellaneous  acquirements.  He  had  an  aptitude  and 
a  fluency  for  writing  verse,  but  he  suffered  his  facil 
ity  to  run  unfettered  so  that  his  poetry  had  a  ten 
dency  to  wordiness  and  superficiality.  Occasionally, 
however,  in  the  description  of  quiet,  beautiful  scenes 
of  simple  nature,  his  success  is  commensurate  with 
his  attempt.  Percival  was  born  at  Berlin,  Conn., 
September  17,  1795,  and  died  at  Hazel  Green,  Wis., 
May  2,  1856. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

Thou,  who  in  the  early  spring 
Hoverest  on  filmy  wing, 
Visiting  the  bright-eyed  flowers, 
Fluttering  in  loaded  bowers, 
Settling  on  the  reddening  rose, 
Reddening  ere  it  fully  blows, 
When  its  crisp  and  folded  leaves 
Just  unroll  their  dewy  tips, 
Soft  as  infant  beauty's  lips, 
Or  anything  that  love  believes — 


154  American  Song. 


Little  Wanderer  after  pleasure, 
Where  is  that  enchanted  treasure 
All  that  live  are  seeking  for  ? 
Is  it  in  the  blossom,  or 
Where  we  seek  it,  in  the  roses 
Of  a  maiden's  cheek,  or  rather 
In  the  many  lights  that  gather 
When  her  smiling  lip  uncloses? 
Wouldst  thou  rather  kiss  a  flower, 
When  't  is  dropping  with  a  shower, 
Or  with  trembling,  quivering  wing, 
Rest  thee  on  a  dearer  thing, 
On  a  lip  that  has  no  stain, 
On  a  brow  that  feels  no  pain, 
In  the  beamings  of  an  eye, 
Where  a  world  of  visions  lie, 
Such  as  to  the  blest  are  given, 
All  of  heaven — all  of  heaven  ? 
If  thou  lovest  the  blossom,  I 
Love  the  cheek,  the  lip  and  eye. 


GEORGE  POPE  MORRIS. 


Morris  was  pre-eminently  a  writer  of  song.  He 
was  born  at  Philadelphia,  October  10,  1802,  and  died 
at  New  York,  July  6,  1864.  Morris  is  strong  in  the 
expression  of  simple  sentiments,  such  as  are  assured 
of  the  ready  sympathy  of  the  people.  Of  his  poems, 
Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree  !  is  the  best  known ;  of 
others,  his  Song  of  Marion  s  Men  is  meritorious  as  a 
stirring  and  native  ballad.  These  two  poems  and  a 
few  others  will  live  with  the  songs  of  the  nation, 
while  his  more  ambitious  efforts  are  already  forgot 
ten. 


WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE ! 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I  '11  protect  it  now. 
'T  was  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


is6  American  Song. 


That  old,  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea — 

And  would'st  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke, 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties  ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies  ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade  ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  played, 
My  mother  kissed  me  here  ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand- 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand  ! 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  ; 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree  !  the  storm  still  brave  ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot ; 
While  I  've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 


Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  was  a  voluminous  author, 
half  dilettante,  half  in  earnest,  who  held  a  leading 
position  in  his  day  in  the  literary  society  of  New 
York.  Willis  was  born  at  Portland,  Maine,  January 
20,  1806.  He  was  graduated  at  Yale,  travelled 
abroad,  edited  journals  in  New  York,  and  published 
volumes  of  light  prose  under  such  titles  as  Sketches, 
Pencillings,  Inklings,  Loiterings,  etc.  He  was  for 
a  number  of  years  associated  with  his  friend  Morris 
in  editing  the  Home  Journal  of  New  York.  His 
taste  is  lighter  than  that  of  most  of  his  contem 
poraries  of  equal  attainment,  but  for  an  idle  hour 
his  books  are  ctill  pleasant  reading,  and  have  a  value 
as  pictures  of  the  society  of  the  time.  The  selection 
here  given  belongs  to  his  more  serious  vein.  Willis 
died  January  20,  1867,  at  his  cottage  on  the  Hud 
son,  near  Newburgh,  from  which  many  of  his  sketches 
had  been  dated. 


157 


American  Song. 


IDLENESS. 

"  Idleness  sweet  and  sacred." 

—  Walter  Savage  Landor.^ 

"  When  you  have  found  a  day  to  be  idle,  be  idle  for  a 

day. 
When  you  have  met  with  three  cups  to  drink,  drink  your 

three  cups." 

The  rain  is  playing  its  soft,  pleasant  tune 
Fitfully  on  the  skylight,  and  the  shade 
Of  the  fast  flying  clouds  across  my  book 
Passes  with  gliding  change.     My  merry  fire 
Sings  cheerfully  to  itself,  my  musing  cat 
Purrs  as  she  wakes  from  her  unquiet  sleep, 
And  looks  into  my  face  as  if  she  felt 
Like  me,  the  gentle  influence  of  the  rain. 
Here  I  have  sat  since  morn,  reading  sometimes, 
And  sometimes  listening  to  the  faster  fall 
Of  the  large  drops,  or  rising  with  the  stir 
Of  an  unbidden  thought,  have  walked  awhile, 
With  the  slow  steps  of  indolence,  my  room, 
And  then  sat  down  composedly  again 
To  my  quaint  book  of  olden  poetry. 

It  is  a  kind  of  idleness,  I  know  ; 
And  I  am  said  to  be  an  idle  man  — 
And  it  is  very  true,  I  love  to  go 
Out  in  the  pleasant  sun,  and  let  my  eye 
Rest  on  the  human  faces  that  pass  by, 
Each  with  its  gay  or  busy  interest  : 

1  Walter  Savage  Landor,   an    eminent  English  author,   born  at 
Ipsley  Court,  Warwickshire,  in  1775. 


Willis.  159 

And  then  I  muse  upon  their  lot,  and  read 
Many  a  lesson  in  their  changeful  cast, 
And  so  grow  kind  of  heart,  as  if  the  sight 
Of  human  beings  bred  humanity. 
And  I  am  better  after  it,  and  go 
More  grateful  to  my  rest,  and  feel  a  love 
Stirring  my  heart  to  every  living  thing ; 
And  my  low  prayer  has  more  humility  ; 
And  I  sink  lightliei  to  my  dreams — and  this, 
'T  is  very  true,  is  only  idleness. 

I  love  to  go  and  mingle  with  the  young 

In  the  gay  festal  room — where  every  heart 

Is  beating  faster  than  the  merry  tune, 

And  their  blue  eyes  are  restless,  and  their  lips 

Parted  with  eager  joy,  and  their  round  cheeks 

Flushed  with  the  beautiful  motion  of  the  dance. 

And  I  can  look  upon  such  things,  and  go 

Back  to  my  solitude,  and  dream  bright  dreams 

For  their  fast  coming  years,  and  speak  of  them 

Earnestly  in  my  prayer,  till  I  am  glad 

With  a  benevolent  joy — and  this,  I  know, 

To  the  world's  eye  is  only  idleness. 

And  when  the  clouds  pass  suddenly  away, 

And  the  blue  sky  is  like  a  newer  world, 

And  the  sweet  growing  things — forest  and  flower, 

Humble  and  beautiful  alike — are  all 

Breathing  up  odors  to  the  very  heaven — 

Or  when  the  frost  has  yielded  to  the  sun 

In  the  rich  autumn,  and  the  filmy  mist 

Lies  like  a  silver  lining  on  the  sky, 

And  the  clear  air  exhilarates,  and  life 

Simply  is  luxury — and  when  the  hush 

Of  twilight,  like  a  gentle  sleep,  steals  on, 


160  American  Song. 

And  the  birds  settle  to  their  nests,  and  stars 
Spring  in  the  upper  sky,  and  there  is  not 
A  sound  that  is  not  low  and  musical — 
At  all  these  pleasant  seasons,  I  go  out 
With  my  first  impulse  guiding  me,  and  take 
Wood-path  or  stream,  or  slope  by  hill  or  vale, 
And  in  my  recklessness  of  heart  stray  on, 
Glad  with  the  birds  and  silent  with  the  leaves, 
And  happy  with  the  fair  and  blessed  world — 
And  this,  't  is  true,  is  only  idleness  ! 

And  I  should  like  to  go  up  to  the  sky, 
And  course  the  heavens,  like  stars,  and  float  away 
Upon  the  gliding  clouds  that  have  no  stay. 
In  their  swift  journey — and  'twould  be  a  joy 
To  walk  the  chambers  of  the  deeps  and  tread 
The  pearls  of  its  untrodden  floor,  and  know 
The  tribes  of  the  unfathomable  depths — 
Dwellers  beneath  the  pressure  of  a  sea  ! 
And  I  should  love  to  issue  with  the  wind 
On  a  strong  errand,  and  o'er-sweep  the  earth 
With  its  broad  continents  and  islands  green, 
Like  to  the  passing  of  a  spirit  on  ! 
And  this,  't  is  true,  were  only  idleness. 


CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


During  his  earlier  working  years,  Hoffman  was 
one  of  the  leading  magazine  writers  of  New  York,  and 
a  facile  writer  of  verse  in  various  styles.  He  was  born 
at  New  York  in  1806.  He  studied  at  Columbia  Col 
lege  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  but  soon  gave  up 
the  law  for  a  literary  career  which  he  continued  un 
til  the  loss  of  his  mind  caused  his  permanent  retire 
ment  to  an  asylum.  He  died  at  Harrisburg,  Penn 
sylvania,  June  7,  1884. 

Under  a  mask  of  conventionality,  Hoffman's  verse 
reveals  the  nature  of  the  man,  buoyant,  convivial, 
emotional,  enthusiastic.  This  vivacity,  however,  is 
at  times  so  gay  as  to  seem  to  prophesy  his  sad 
end.  Yet  there  were  other  things  in  Hoffman  than 
mere  lightness  of  spirit.  He  could  work  and  work 
disinterestedly  in  a  public  cause ;  and  the  poem 
Monterey  shows  strength  as  well  as  a  flashing  intrepi 
dity  of  spirit. 

MONTEREY. 

We  were  not  many — we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day  ; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
«  161 


162  American  Song. 

Give  half  his  years  if  he  then  could 
Have  with  us  been  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot,  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 
Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on — still  on  our  column  kept 

Through  walls  of  flames  its  withering  way  ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When  striking  where  the  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play  ; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many — we  who  press'd 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day  ; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He  'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest, 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 


ALBERT  PIKE. 


Albert  Pike  attempted  much  ;  he  succeeded  some 
times.  Pike  was  born  at  Boston,  Massachusetts, 
December  29,  1809.  He  entered  Harvard,  left  for 
want  of  means,  taught,  travelled,  edited,  was  a 
soldier,  and  after  a  long  life  died  April  2,  1891. 

Pike's  best  known  poem  is  Dixie.  Among  the  rest, 
perhaps  the  best  in  execution  is  Every  Year.  Pike's 
heartiness  made  his  southern  song  a  favorite  even 
among  veteran  Union  soldiers.  Every  Year  has 
much  of  the  same  style  of  unselfishness  and  zeal. 
There  is  something  noble,  pure,  and  glorious  about 
his  lines  that  makes  them  of  ideal  value. 


EVERY  YEAR. 

Life  is  a  count  of  losses, 

Every  year ; 
For  the  weak  are  heavier  crosses 

Every  year  ; 

Lost  Springs  with  sobs  replying 
Unto  weary  Autumn's  sighing, 
While  those  we  love  are  dying, 

Every  year. 
163 


164  American  Song. 

The  days  have  less  of  gladness 

Every  year ; 
The  nights  more  weight  of  sadness 

Every  year  ; 

Fair  Springs  no  longer  charm  us, 
The  winds  and  weather  harm  us, 
The  threats  of  death  alarm  us, 

Every  year. 

There  come  new  cares  and  sorrows 

Every  year  ; 
Dark  days  and  darker  morrows, 

Every  year  ; 

The  ghosts  of  dead  loves  haunt  us, 
The  ghosts  of  changed  friends  taunt  us, 
And  disappointments  daunt  us, 

Every  year. 

To  the  past  go  more  dead  faces 

Every  year, 
As  the  loved  leave  vacant  places, 

Every  year  ; 

Everywhere  the  sad  eyes  meet  us, 
In  the  evening's  dusk  they  greet  us, 
And  to  come  to  them  entreat  us, 

Every  year. 

"You  are  growing  old,"  they  tell  us, 

Every  year  ; 
"You  are  more  alone,"  they  tell  us, 

Every  year  ; 

"  You  can  win  no  new  affection, 
You  have  only  recollection, 


Pike.  165 

Deeper  sorrow  and  dejection, 
Every  year." 

Too  true  !     Life's  shores  are  shifting 

Every  year  ; 
And  we  are  seaward  drifting 

Every  year ; 

Old  places,  changing,  fret  us, 
The  living  more  forget  us, 
There  are  fewer  to  regret  us, 

Every  year. 

But  the  truer  life  draws  nigher 

Every  year ; 
And  its  morning- star  climbs  higher, 

Every  year  ; 

Earth's  hold  on  us  grows  slighter, 
And  the  heavy  burthen  lighter, 
And  the  Dawn  Immortal  brighter, 

Every  year. 


FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOU. 


Frances  Sargent  Osgood  was  the  first  woman  to 
write  good  poetry  in  this  country.  She  was  born  at 
Boston,  Massachusetts,  June  18,  1811.  She  wrote 
poetry  young,  married,  lived  in  England  for  several 
years,  and  returned  to  New  England.  She  died  at 
Hingham,  Massachusetts,  May  12,  1850.  Several 
collections  of  her  poems  were  published.  She  is 
especially  successful  with  short  poems  of  a  character 
ardent,  arch,  and  dreamy,  such  as  A  Dancing  Girl, 
Calumny,  and  He  may  go — if  he  can. 


THE  DANCING  GIRL. 

She  comes — the  spirit  of  the  dance  ! 

And,  but  for  those  large,  eloquent  eyes, 
Where  passion  speaks  in  every  glance, 

She  'd  seem  a  wanderer  from  the  skies. 


So  light,  that  gazing  breathless  there, 
Lest  the  celestial  dream  should  go, 

You  'd  think  the  music  in  the  air 
Waved  the  fair  vision  to  and  fro  ! 
1 66 


Osgood.  167 

Or  that  the  melody's  sweet  flow 

Within  the  radiant  creature  played, 

And  those  soft  wreathing  arms  of  snow 
And  white  sylph  feet  the  music  made. 

Now  gliding  slow  with  dreamy  grace, 

Her  eyes  beneath  their  lashes  lost, 
Now  motionless  with  lifted  face, 

And  small  hands  on  her  bosom  crossed  ; 

And  now  with  flashing  eyes  she  springs — 
Her  whole  bright  figure  raised  in  air, 

As  if  her  soul  had  spread  its  wings 

And  poised  her  one  wild  instant  there  ! 

She  spoke  not  ;  but  so  richly  fraught 
With  language  was  her  glance  and  smile, 

That  when  the  curtain  fell,  I  thought 
She  had  been  talking  all  the  while. 


WILLIAM   ROSS  WALLACE. 


William  Ross  Wallace  was  born  at  Lexington, 
Ky.,  in  1819.  He  practiced  law  in  New  York  after 
1841,  and  contributed  occasionally  for  magazines. 
He  died  at  New  York,  May  5,  1881.  Wallace  had 
the  sense  of  literary  patriotism  and  the  gift  of  rheto 
ric,,  rather  than  natural  poetic  inspiration.  His 
poems,  however,  are  in  their  way  praiseworthy. 
Among  them,  Of  Thine  Oivn  Country  Sing  is  char 
acterized  by  its  breadth  and  vigor  of  treatment,  by 
the  clear  and  well-proportioned  presentation  of  his 
theme.  This  piece  recalls  some  of  the  shorter  poems 
of  Coleridge. 

OF  THINE  OWN  COUNTRY  SING. 

I  met  the  wild-eyed  Genius  of  our  land 

In  Huron's  forest  vast  and  dim  ; 
I  saw  her  sweep  a  harp  with  stately  hand  ; 

I  heard  her  solemn  hymn. 

She  sang  of  nations  that  had  passed  away 
From  her  own  broad  imperial  clime  ; 

Of  nations  new  to  whom  she  gave  the  sway  : 
She  sang  of  God  and  Time. 
1 68 


Wallace.  169 

I  saw  the  Past  with  all  its  rhythmic  lore  ; 

I  saw  the  Present  clearly  glow  ; 
Shapes  with  pale  faces  paced  a  far  dim  shore 

And  whispered  "  Joy  "  and  "  Woe  !  " 

Her  large  verse  pictured  mountain,  vale,  and  bay  ; 

Our  wide,  calm  rivers  rolled  along, 
And  many  a  mighty  lake  and  prairie  lay 

In  the  shadow  of  her  song. 

As  in  Missouri's  mountain  range,  the  vast 

Wild  wind  majestically  flies 
From  crag  to  crag,  till  on  the  top  at  last 

The  wild  wind  proudly  dies. 

So  died  the  hymn,  "  O,  Genius  !  how  can  I 
Crown  me  with  song  as  thou  art  crowned  ?  " 

She,  smiling,  pointed  to  the  spotless  sky 
And  the  forest-tops  around, — 

Then  sang — "  Not  to  the  far-off  lands  of  Eld 

Must  thou  for  inspiration  go  ; 
There  Milton's  large  imperial  organ  swelled, 

There  Avon's  '  waters  flow. 

"  No  alien-bard,  where  Tasso's"  troubled  lyre 
Made  sorrow  fair,  unchallenged  dwells — 
Where  deep-eyed  Dante 3  with  the  wreath  of  fire 
Came  chanting  from  his  hells. 

1  Avon,  a  river  of  England  which  flows  by  Shakespeare's  birth 
place,  Stratford. 

8  Tasso,  an  Italian  poet,  b.  at  Sorrento,  in  1544. 

3  Dante  Alighieri,  author  of  Divine  Comedy,  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  who  ever  lived,  b.  at  Florence,  Italy,  in  1265. 


70  American  Song. 

"  Yet  sometimes  sing  the  old  majestic  themes 

Of  Europe  in  her  song  enshrined  : 
These,  going  wind-like  o'er  the  Sea  of  Dreams, 
May  liberalize  the  mind. 

"  Or  learn  from  mournful  Asia,  as  she  lies 

Musing  at  noon  beneath  her  stately  palms, 
Her  angel-lore,  her  wide-browed  prophecies, 
Her  solemn-sounding  psalms. 

"  Or  sit  with  Afric  l  when  her  eyes  of  flame 

Smoulder  in  dreams,  beneath  their  swarthy  lids, 
Of  youthful  Sphinx,  and  kings  at  loud  acclaim 
On  new-built  pyramids. 

"  But  know  thy  Highest  dwells  at  Home  :  there  art 

And  choral  inspiration  spring  ; 
If  thou  wouldst  touch  the  universal  heart, 
Of  thine  own  country  sing." 

1  Afric.     Africa. 


JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE. 


John  Godfrey  Saxe  is  a  genius  by  himself.  Saxe 
was  born  at  Highgate,  Vt.,  June  2,  1816.  He  was 
graduated  at  Middlebury  College,  entered  the  bar, 
edited  a  newspaper,  and  held  political  offices.  He 
also  wrote  for  magazines  and  published  several  vol 
umes  of  poetry.  A  leading  quality  of  much  of  his 
verse  is  humor.  On  sober  subjects,  for  instance  in 
Murillo  and  his  Slave,  he  has  also  done  good  work. 
The  verses  by  Saxe  excel  by  virtue  of  plain,  honest 
statement,  and  are  even  sometimes  wanting  in  liter 
ary  finish.  Saxe  died  at  Albany,  N.  Y.,  March  31, 
1887. 


MURILLO  AND  HIS  SLAVE. 

A    LEGEND    OF    SPAIN. 

"  Whose  work  is  this  ?  "  Murillo  said, 
The  while  he  bent  his  eager  gaze 

Upon  a  sketch  (a  Virgin's  head) 
That  filled  the  painter  with  amaze. 
171 


American  Song. 

Of  all  his  pupils,  not  a  few,— 

Marvelling,  't  would  seem  no  less  than  he  ; 
Each  answered  that  he  nothing  knew 

As  touching  whose  the  sketch  might  be. 

This  much  appeared,  and  nothing  more  : 
The  piece  was  painted  in  the  night : 

"  And  yet,  by  Jove  !  "  Murillo  swore, 
"  He  has  no  cause  to  fear  the  light." 

" '  T  is  something  crude,  and  lacks,  I  own, 
That  finer  finish  time  will  teach  ; 

But  genius  here  is  plainly  shown, 
And  art  beyond  the  common  reach. 

"  Sebastian  !  "  (turning  to  his  slave,) 

"  Who  keeps  this  room  when  I  'm  in  bed  ? " 

"  '  T  is  I,  Senor."     "Now  mark  you,  knave  ! 
Keep  better  watch,"  the  master  said  ; 

"  For  if  this  painter  comes  again, 
And  you,  while  dozing,  let  him  slip, 

Excuses  will  be  all  in  vain, — 
Remember,  you  shall  feel  the  whip  !  " 

Now  while  Sebastian  slept,  he  dreamed 

That  to  his  dazzled  vision  came 
The  Blessed  Lady — so  she  seemed — 

And  crowned  him  with  a  wreath  of  Fame. 

Whereat  the  startled  slave  awoke, 
And  at  his  picture  wrought  away 

So  rapt  that  ere  the  spell  was  broke, 
The  dark  was  fading  into  day. 


Saxe.  1 73 

"  My  beautiful  !  "  the  artist  cried  ; 

"  Thank  God,  I  have  not  lived  in  vain  !  " 
Hark  !  'T  is  Murillo  at  his  side  ; 

The  man  has  grown  a  slave  again. 

"  Who  is  your  master  ? — answer  me  !  " 
"  'T  is  you,"  replied  the  faltering  lad. 

"  Nay,  't  is  not  that,  I  mean,"  said  he, 
"  Tell  me,  what  teacher  have  you  had  ?  " 

"  Yourself,  Senor.     When  you  have  taught 

These  gentlemen,  I  too  have  heard 
The  daily  lesson,  and  have  sought 

To  treasure  every  golden  word." 

"  What  say  you,  boys  ? "     Murillo  cried. 

Smiling  in  sign  of  fond  regard, 
"  Is  this  a  case — pray  you  decide — 

For  punishment,  or  for  reward  ? " 

"  Reward,  Senor  !  "  they  all  exclaimed, 
And  each  proposed  some  costly  toy  ; 

But  still,  whatever  gift  was  named, 
Sebastian  showed  no  gleam  of  joy. 

Whereat  one  said  :  "  He  's  kind  to-day  ; 

Ask  him  your  Freedom."     With  a  groan 
The  boy  fell  on  his  knees  :  "  Nay,  nay  ! 

My  father's  freedom,  not  my  own." 

"  Take  both  !  "  the  painter.    "  Henceforth 
A  slave  no  more, — be  thou  my  son  ; 

Thy  Art  had  failed,  with  all  its  worth, 
Of  what  thy  Heart  this  day  has  won  !  " 


i?4  American  Song. 


L  ENVOI. 


The  traveller,  loitering  in  Seville, 
And  gazing  at  each  pictured  saint, 

May  see  Murillo's  genius  still, 

And  learn  how  well  his  son  could  paint. 


HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 


Thoreau  was  an  eccentric  recluse,  who,  in  his  own 
way,  however,  had  found  out  many  reasons  why 
life  is  worth  living.  Henry  David  Thoreau  was  born 
at  Concord,  Massachusetts,  July  12,  1817.  He  was 
graduated  at  Harvard,  built  him  a  hut  on  the  edge  of 
Walden  Pond,  near  his  native  town,  and  lived  for  a 
number  of  years  without  the  aid  of  human  society. 
He  spent  much  of  his  time  out  of  doors  in  the  ob 
servation  of  nature,  occupying  himself  also  in  the 
study  of  the  great  authors  of  the  past.  Thoreau  was 
well  versed  in  the  lore  of  wild  nature.  He  was  also 
an  original  thinker  on  certain  literary  and  ethical  sub 
jects  in  which  he  found  himself  specially  interested. 
He  was  distinctively  a  poet  in  his  imagination  and 
fancy,  and  in  his  power  of  imbuing  himself  with  the 
spirit  of  the  woods  in  which  he  lived,  but  his  more 
important  literary  productions,  such  as  Walden,  A 
Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimac,  etc.,  took  the 
form  of  prose.  The  Fishing  Boy  is  an  example  of 
what  he  could  do  in  verse  with  a  subject  which 
appealed  to  his  personal  sympathies. 


175 


176  American  Song. 

THE  FISHING  BOY. 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach, 
As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go  ; 

My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'er-reach 
Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 

My  sole  employment  is,  and  scrupulous  care, 
To  place  my  gains  beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 

Each  smoother  pebble,  and  each  shell  more  rare, 
Which  ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  confides. 

I  have  but  few  companions  on  the  shore  : 

They  scorn  the  strand  who  sail  upon  the  sea  ; 

Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they  've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  upon  the  strand  to  me. 

The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse,1 
Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view  ; 

Along  the  shore  my  hand  is  on  its  pulse, 

And  I  converse  with  many  a  ship-wrecked  crew. 

And  since  in  life  I  loved  them  well, 
Let  me  in  death  lie  down  with  them, 

And  let  the  pines  and  tempests  swell 
Around  me  their  great  requiem. 

1  Dulse ',  a  kind  of  seaweed. 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


Thomas  Buchanan  Read,  whose  ambition  it  was 
to  be  an  artist,  is  now  better  remembered  by  his 
poems.  Read  was  born  in  Chester  County,  Pennsyl 
vania,  March  12,  1822.  He  studied,  first  in  the 
large  cities  of  this  country,  then  in  the  galleries  of 
Florence  and  Rome.  Read  died  in  New  York,  May 
11,  1872.  In  Read's  poetry,  which  contains  traces 
of  his  artistic  sense,  he  has  excelled  in  several  dif 
ferent  styles.  Sheridan  s  Ride  is  famous  ;  Drifting 
and  The  Closing  Scene  are  hardly  less  so.  Others 
are  almost  as  good:  The  Song  of  the  Alpine  Guide, 
The  Closing  Scene,  or  the  sonnet  /  Have  Looked  on  a 
Face,  should  all  be  read  in  order  to  fill  out  that 
idea  of  Read's  capability  which  is  only  partly  re 
vealed  through  the  two  former. 


SONG  OF  THE  ALPINE  GUIDE. 

On  Zurich's '  spires,  with  rosy  light, 
The  mountains  smile  at  morn  and  eve, 

And  Zurich's  waters,  blue  and  bright, 

The  glories  of  those  hills  receive. 

1  Zurich,  a  beautiful  city  of  Switzerland. 

177 


178  American  Song. 

And  there  my  sister  trims  her  sail, 
That  like  a  wayward  swallow  flies  ; 

But  I  would  rather  meet  the  gale, 
That  fans  the  eagle  in  the  skies. 

She  sings  in  Zurich's  chapel  choir, 

Where  rolls  the  organ  on  the  air, 
And  bells  proclaim  from  spire  to  spire 

Their  universal  call  to  prayer. 
But  let  me  hear  the  mountain  rills, 

And  old  Saint  Bernard's  *  storm-bell  toll, 
And,  'mid  these  great  cathedral  hills, 

The  thundering  avalanches  roll. 

My  brother  wears  a  martial  plume, 

And  serves  within  a  distant  land, — 
The  flowers  that  on  his  bosom  bloom 

Are  placed  there  by  a  stranger  hand. 
Love  greets  him  but  in  foreign  eyes, 

And  greets  him  in  a  foreign  speech, 
But  she  who  to  my  heart  replies 

Must  speak  the  tongue  these  mountains  teach. 

The  warrior's  trumpet  o'er  him  swells, 

The  triumph  which  it  only  hath  ; 
But  let  me  hear  the  mule-worn  bells 

Speak  peace  in  every  mountain  heath. 
His  spear  is  ever  'gainst  a  foe, 

Where  waves  the  hostile  flag  abroad  ; 
My  pike-staff  only  clears  the  snow, 

My  banner  the  blue  sky  of  God. 

1  Saint  Bernard,  the  well-known  hospice  of  Saint  Bernard. 


Read.  1 79 

On  Zurich's  side  my  mother  sits, 

And  to  her  whirling  spindle  sings  ; 
Through  Zurich's  waves  my  father's  nets 

Sweep  daily  with  their  filmy  wings, 
To  that  beloved  voice  I  list  ; 

And  view  that  father's  toil  with  pride  ; 
But  like  a  low  and  vale-born  mist, 

My  spirit  climbs  the  mountain  side. 

And  I  would  ever  hear  the  stir 

And  turmoil  of  the  singing  winds, 
Whose  viewless  wheels  around  me  whirr, 

Whose  distaffs  are  the  swaying  pines, 
And  on  some  snowy  mountain's  head, 

The  deepest  joy  to  me  is  given, 
Where,  net-like,  the  great  storm  is  spread 

To  sweep  the  azure  lake  of  Heaven. 

Then  since  the  vale  delights  me  not, 

And  Zurich  wooes  in  vain  below, 
And  it  hath  been  my  joy  and  lot 

To  scale  these  Alpine  crags  of  snow — 
And  since  in  life  I  loved  them  well, 

Let  me  in  death  lie  down  with  them, 
And  let  the  pines  and  tempests  swell 

Around  me  their  great  requiem. 


GUY  HUMPHREYS  McMASTER. 


The  poem,  The  Old  Continentals,  or,  as  it  has  also 
been  aptly  called,  Carmen  Bellicosum,  should,  as  well 
as  the  name  of  the  author,  be  kept  from  oblivion. 
Judge  Guy  Humphreys  McMaster  was  born  at  Clyde, 
N.  Y.,  January  31,  1829.  He  wrote  the  poem  at 
nineteen  years  of  age,  and  it  appeared  soon  after  in 
the  Knickerbocker  Magazine  of  February,  1849,  over 
the  signature  "  John  MacGrom."  The  piece  is  the 
best  extant  imaginative  description  of  the  Revolu 
tionary  soldier,  with  his  quaint  garb  covering  a 
grim  determination.  McMaster  died  at  Bath,  N.  Y., 
in  September,  1887.' 


CARMEN  BELLICOSUM. 

In  their  ragged  regimentals, 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 

When  the  Grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 

1 1  am  indebted  for  these  facts  to  a  notice  in  the  New  York  Critic, 
vol.  viii.,  p.  203  (erroneously  given  vol.  xi.,  in  Pooles  Index),  includ 
ing  extracts  from  a  letter  by  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman. 

1 80 


Me  Master.  181 

Cannon-shot ; 

When  the  files 

Of  the  isles, 

From  the  smoky  night  encampment, 
Bore  the  banner  of  the  rampant 

Unicorn, 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer, 
Rolled  the  roll  of  the  drummer 

Through  the  morn  ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires  ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 

Blazed  the  fires  ; 

As  the  roar 

On  the  shore, 

Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green-sodded 
acres 

Of  the  plain  : 
And  louder,  louder,  louder, 
Cracked  the  black  gunpowder, 

Cracking  amain  ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoniers, 

And  the  "  villainous  saltpetre  " 
Rang  a  fierce  discordant  metre 

Round  their  ears  ; 

As  the  swift 

Storm-drift, 


1 82  American  Song. 

With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse-guards'  clangor 

On  our  flanks. 

Then  higher,  higher,  higher  burned 
The  old-fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks  ! 

Then  the  old-fashioned  colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud  ; 

And  his  broad  sword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing, 
Trumpet-loud. 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And  the   trooper-jackets   redden   at  the   touch   of    the 

leaden 
Rifle-breath. 

And  rounder,  rounder,    rounder,    roared  the  iron  six- 
pounder, 
Hurling  death. 


JOHN  ANTROBUS. 


One  American  poem  has  been  written  by  an  artist 
not  a  native  of  this  country.  John  Antrobus,  the 
author  of  TJie  Cow-boy,  was  born  at  Walsall,  Staf 
fordshire,  England,  in  1831,  but  came  to  America  at 
the  age  of  eighteen.  He  gained  some  repute  as 
a  painter,  and  has  also  published  other  poetry  than 
the  present  selection.  The  Cow-boy  is  a  vivid  picture, 
especially  successful  in  the  half-careless,  half-artful 
refrain  at  the  close  of  each  stanza. 


THE  COW-BOY. 

"  What  care  I,  what  cares  he, 
What  cares  the  world  of  the  life  we  know  ! 
Little  they  reck  of  the  shadowless  plains, 
The  shelterless  mesa,  the  sun  and  the  rains, 
The  wild,  free  life,  as  the  winds  that  blow." 

With  his  broad  sombrero,1 

His  worn  chapparejos, 

And  clinking  spurs, 

1  Sombrero,  a  kind  of  broad-brimmed  hat. 
183 


1 84  American  Song. 

Like  a  Centaur  he  speeds, 
Where  the  wild  bull  feeds  ; 
And  he  laughs  ha,  ha  !  who  cares,  who  cares  ! 

Ruddy  and  brown — careless  and  free — 

A  king  in  the  saddle — he  rides  at  will 

O'er  the  measureless  range  where  rarely  change 

The  swart  gray  plains  so  weird  and  strange, 

Treeless,  and  streamless,  and  wondrous  still ! 

With  his  slouch  sombrero, 

His  torn  chapparejos, 

And  clinking  spurs 

Like  a  Centaur  he  speeds 

Where  the  wild  bull  feeds  : 
And  he  laughs  ha,  ha  !  who  cares,  who  cares  ! 

He  of  the  towns,  he  of  the  East, 
Has  only  a  vague,  dull  thought  of  him  ; 
In  his  far-off  dreams  the  cow-boy  seems 
A  mythical  thing,  a  thing  he  deems 
A  Hun  or  a  Goth,  as  swart  and  grim  ! 

With  his  stained  sombrero, 

His  rough  chapparejos, 

And  clinking  spurs, 

Like  a  Centaur  he  speeds 

Where  the  wild  bull  feeds  ; 
And  he  laughs  ha,  ha  !  who  cares,  who  cares  ! 

Often  alone,  his  saddle  a  throne, 
He  scans  like  a  sheik  the  numberless  herd  ; 
Where  the  buffalo-grass  and  the  sage-grass  dry 
In  the  hot  white  glare  of  a  cloudless  sky, 
And  the  music  of  streams  is  never  heard. 
With  his  gay  sombrero, 


Antrobus.  185 

His  brown  chapparejos, 
And  clinking  spurs, 
Like  a  Centaur  he  speeds, 
Where  the  wild  bull  feeds  ; 
And  he  laughs  ha,  ha  !  who  cares,  who  cares  ! 

Swift  and  strong,  and  ever  alert, 

Yet  sometimes  he  rests  on  the  dreary  vast  ; 

And  his  thoughts,  like  the  thoughts  of  other  men, 

Go  back  to  his  childhood's  days  again, 

And  to  many  a  loved  one  in  the  past. 

With  his  gay  sombrero, 

His  rude  chapparejos, 

And  clinking  spurs, 

He  rests  awhile, 

With  a  tear  and  a  smile, 
Then  he  laughs  ha,  ha  !  who  cares,  who  cares  ! 

Sometimes  his  mood  from  solitude 

Hurries  him  heedless  off  to  the  town  ! 

Where  mirth  and  wine  through  the  goblet  shine, 

And  treacherous  sirens  twist  and  twine 

The  lasso  that  often  brings  him  down  ; 

With  his  soaked  sombrero, 

His  rent  chapparejos, 

And  clinking  spurs, 

He  staggers  back 

On  the  homeward  track, 
And  shouts  to  the  plains — who  cares,  who  cares  ! 

'T  is  over  late  at  the  ranchman's  gate — 
He  and  his  fellows,  perhaps  a  score, 
Halt  in  a  quarrel  o'er  night  begun, 
With  a  ready  blow  and  a  random  gun — 


86  American  Song. 

There  's  a  dead,  dead  comrade  !  nothing  more. 

With  his  slouched  sombrero, 

His  dark  chapparejos, 

And  clinking  spurs, 

He  dashes  past, 

With  face  o'ercast, 
And  growls  in  his  throat — who  cares,  who  cares  ! 

Away  on  the  range  there  is  little  change  ; 
He  blinks  in  the  sun,  he  herds  the  steers  ; 
But  a  trail  on  the  wind  keeps  close  behind, 
And  whispers  that  stagger  and  blanch  the  mind 
Through  the  hum  of  the  solemn  noon  he  hears  ; 

With  his  dark  sombrero, 

His  stained  chapparejos, 

And  clinking  spurs, 

He  sidles  down. 

Where  the  grasses  brown 
May  hide  his  face,  while  he  sobs — who  cares  ! 

But  what  care  I,  and  what  cares  he — 

This  is  the  strain,  common  at  least  ; 

He  is  free  and  vain  of  his  bridle-rein, 

Of  his  spurs,  of  his  gun,  of  the  dull,  gray  plain  ; 

He  is  ever  vain  of  his  broncho1  beast ! 

With  his  gray  sombrero, 

His  brown  chapparejos, 

And  clinking  spurs, 

Like  a  Centaur  he  speeds, 

Where  the  wild  bull  feeds  ; 
And  he  laughs,  ha,  ha  ! — who  cares,  who  cares  ! 

1  Broncho,  a  horse  not  broken  ;  a  western  word. 


II.    At  Swords'  Points. 

THE  war  songs  of  1861-65  struck  a  new  chord  on 
the  national  harp.  Never  before  in  this  country  had 
battle  been  urged  by  poetry  so  good  in  itself ;  and 
never  before  had  American  literature  shown  such  fire 
in  its  notes  of  feeling. ' 

The  bards  of  one  side  replying,  as  it  were,  to  those 
of  the  other,  the  ballads  have  an  antiphonal  interest. 
The  southern  lyrics  are  parts  of  the  past  ;  but  as 
truly  national  to  us,  as  the  Celtic  odes  are  to  England ; 
echoes  lovely  in  their  life  and  their  picturesqueness, 
and  attractive  from  their  sentiment  of  fellowship  and 
their  hatred  of  fancied  tyranny.  The  northern 
poems  are  sterner,  deeper,  and  more  serious ;  less 
adventurous,  it  is  true,  but  fully  as  determined  in 
their  strenuous  resolution  for  victory.  They  are  also 
inclined  less  to  self-glorification  and  more  toward 
unselfish  passion  for  the  preservation  of  the  Union. 
On  both  sides,  though  there  are  certain  minstrels 
distinguished  by  a  stronger  and  a  more  frequent 
touch  than  the  others,  the  interest  of  the  war  ballads 
of  '61  is  rather  national  than  personal. 

General  reference  :  American  War  Ballads.    G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

1  In  response  to  the  request  of  my  publishers,  I  am  glad  to  be  able 
to  append  here  Holmes's  Old  Ironsides,  a  poem  on  a  war-ship,  and 
thus  related  psychologically  to  this  group. 

187 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


Julia  Ward   Howe  was  born  in  New  York,  May 
27,  1819. 

"  She  with  all  the  charm  of  woman, 
She  with  all  the  breadth  of  man," 

as  seen  in  her  writings,  has  been  distinguished  rather 
as  a  reformer  on  the  lecture  platform  and  with  the 
pen,  than  as  a  poet.  In  the  The  Battle-Hymn  of 
the  Republic,  however,  her  nature  comes  out  at  its 
strongest,  under  manifestations  seen  only  partially 
and  occasionally  in  her  other  poems. 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  : 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath 

are  stored  ; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift 
sword : 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 
188 


PI  owe.  189 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling 

camps  ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and 

damps  ; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring 

lamps  : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnish'd  rows  of  steel : 
"  As  ye  deal  with  my  condemners,  so  with  you  my  grace 

shall  deal ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his 

heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth   the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 
retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment- 
seat  ; 

Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him  !  be  jubilant,  my 
feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me  : 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 
free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

November,  1861. 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS. 


James  Thomas  Fields,  genial  publisher,  man  of 
letters,  and  literary  enthusiast,  was  born  at  Ports 
mouth,  N.  H.,  December  31,  1816.  He  had  inti 
mate  and  friendly  relations  with  the  leading  poets, 
not  merely  as  their  man  of  business,  but  also  as  the 
companion  of  their  social  hours.  Lowell  has  dedi 
cated  one  of  his  volumes  to  Fields,  and  Whittier 
has  left  c  pen  portrait  of  him  in  his  Tent  on  the 
Beach.  As  a  writer  of  verse,  Fields's  hearty  ener 
getic  character  comes  out  in  the  poem,  The  Stars  and 
Stripes.  Fields  died  at  Boston,  Mass.,  April  24,  1881. 


THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES. 

Rally  round  the  flag,  boys — 
Give  it  to  the  breeze  ! 

That  's  the  banner  we  bore 
On  the  land  and  seas. 

Brave  hearts  are  under  it, 

Let  the  traitors  brag, 
Gallant  lads,  fire  away  ! 

And  fight  for  the  flag. 
190 


Fields. 

Their  flag  is  but  a  rag — 
Ours  is  the  true  one  ; 

Up  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  ! 
Down  with  the  new  one  ! 

Let  our  colors  fly,  boys — 
Guard  them  day  and  night  ; 

For  victory  is  liberty, 

And  God  will  bless  the  right. 


ALBERT  PIKE. 


(For  biographical  notice  see  the  poem,  Every  Year.) 


DIXIE.1 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you  ! 
Up,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you  ! 
To  arms  !  To  arms  !  To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 
Lo  !  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted — 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united  ! 
To  arms  !  To  arms  !  To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Hurrah  !  Hurrah  ! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 

And  live  or  die  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !  To  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

1  Dixie  was  the  name  given  by  the  Southerners  to  the  territory  of 
the  eleven  Confederate  States  which  seceded  in  1861.  It  is  derived 
from  the  old  Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  which  under  one  of  the  several 
Congressional  compromises,  had  been  fixed  to  divide  slave  territory 
from  free. 

I  quote  from  a  letter  in  my  possession  from  Mr.  Yvon  Pike,  who 
writes  : 

"  My  father  wrote  two  poems  entitled  Dixie,  one  in  1861,  and  the 
other  [which  I  have  not  seen]  just  after  the  war." 

192 


Pike. 


193 


To  arms  !  To  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter  ! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter  ! 

To  arms  ! 

Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance  ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance  ! 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Fear  no  danger  !  shun  no  labor  ! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre  ! 

To  arms  ! 

Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder  ! 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannon's  ringing  voices  ! 

To  arms  ! 

For  faith  betrayed,  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken, 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles  ! 

To  arms  ! 

Cut  the  unequal  bond  asunder  ! 
Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder  ! 

To  arms  ! 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 
13 


194  American  Song. 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter  ! 

To  arms  ! 

Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed, 

To  arms ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation 

Secures  among  earth's  powers  its  station  ! 

To  arms  ! 

Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story  ! 

To  arms  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness. 

To  arms  ! 

Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow  ; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 
To  arms  !  To  arms  !  To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 

And  live  or  die  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !  To  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !  To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 


ROSSITER  WORTHINGTON  RAYMOND. 


Rossiter  Worthington  Raymond  was  born  at  Cin 
cinnati,  Ohio,  April  27,  1840.  He  is  known  rather 
as  a  scientist  than  as  a  man  of  letters,  but  among  other 
writings  he  has  composed  several  war-ballads.  Of 
these  his  Cavalry  Song  is  the  best. 


CAVALRY  SONG. 

Our  bugles  sound  gayly.     To  horse  and  away  ! 
And  over  the  mountains  breaks  the  day  ; 
Then  ho  !  brothers,  ho  !  for  the  ride  or  the  fight, 
There  are  deeds  to  be  done  ere  we  slumber  to-night ! 

And  whether  we  fight  or  whether  we  fall 

By  sabre-stroke  or  rifle  ball, 

The  hearts  of  the  free  will  remember  us  yet, 

And  our  country,  our  country  will  never  forget ! 

Then  mount  and  away  !  let  the  coward  delight 
To  be  lazy  all  day  and  safe  all  night  ; 
Our  joy  is  a  charger,  flecked  with  foam, 
And  the  earth  is  our  bed  and  the  saddle  our  home  ; 
And  whether  we  fight,  etc. 
195 


i96  American  Song. 

See  yonder  the  ranks  of  the  traitorous  foe, 
And  bright  in  the  sunshine  bayonets  glow  ! 
Breathe  a  prayer,  but  no  sigh  ;  think  for  what  you  would 

fight; 

Then  charge  !  with  a  will  boys,  and  God  for  the  right ! 
And  whether  we  fight,  etc. 

We  have  gathered  again  the  red  laurels  of  war  ; 
We  have  followed  the  traitors  fast  and  far  ; 
But  some  who  rose  gayly  this  morn  with  the  sun 
Lie  bleeding  and  pale  on  the  field  they  have  won  ! 
But  whether  we  fight,  etc. 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL. 


James  Ryder  Randall  was  born  at  Baltimore,  Md., 
January  I,  1829.  He  studied  at  Georgetown  College, 
and  later  removed  to  Louisiana.  Since  then  he  has 
held  several  editorial  positions  in  the  South. 

Randall  was  one  of  the  leading  poets  of  the  Lost 
Cause.  His  production  was  prolific  ;  his  style  is 
fresh,  spirited,  and  chivalric.  My  Maryland  is  his 
best  lyric.  There  's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  Yet  has  in 
it  very  quotable  lines.  Among  others  of  excellence 
are  John  Pelham,  and  the  poem  beginning,  "  Weep, 
Louisiana,  weep."  Randall's  fault,  if  it  be  one  in  a 
war  song — vituperation — is  more  than  atoned  for  by 
his  energy  and  vividness. 


MY   MARYLAND. 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland  ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland  ! 
Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 


198  American  Song. 

That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore,1 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland  ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland  ! 

For  life  or  death,  for  woe  or  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland  ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland  ! 

Remember  Carroll's  *  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  3  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

Come  !  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland  ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland  ! 

1  Baltimore,  referring  to  the  conflict  of  the  Sixth  Massachusetts 
Regiment  with  the  people  of  Baltimore,  on  passing  through  the 
town. 

*  Charles  Carroll,  of  Carrollton,  Revolutionary  patriot,  born  at 
Annapolis,  in  1737, 

3  John  Eager  Howard,  a  distinguished  military  officer,  born  in 
Baltimore  Co.,  Md.,  in  1752. 


Randall.  199 

With  Ringgold's  '  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  a  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  2  and  dashing  May,3 
Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland  ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, 
"  Sic  semper  !  "  't  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland  ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

Come  !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong. 

Maryland  ! 
Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland  ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song,* 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland  ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland  ! 

1  Major  Samuel  Ringgold,  born  in  Washington  Co.,  Md. ,  in  1800. 

2  Watson  ;  Loiue  ;  May  ;  Maryland  soldiers  of  local  fame. 

3  Slogan  Song,  war  cry  ;  used  first  of  a  Highland  clan  in  Scotland. 


200  American  Song, 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland  ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum 

Maryland  ! 
The  "  Old  Line's  "  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland  ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb  ; 
Huzza  !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum — 
She  breathes  !  she  burns  !  She  '11  come  !  She  '11 
come  ! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  was  born  at  Hartford, 
Conn.,  October  8,  1833.  He  studied  at  Yale  Col 
lege,  and  in  his  varied  career  has  been  editor,  critic, 
essayist,  stock-broker,  and  last  but  not  least,  poet. 
Stedman's  largest  literary  work  of  general  interest 
is  his  Poets  of  America,  but  his  Victorian  Poets  has 
won  fame  for  its  thorough  knowledge  of  the  subject, 
and  for  its  keen  yet  temperate  criticism.  Of  his 
own  poems,  those  which  deal  with  war  subjects  have 
won  the  largest  measure  of  appreciation,  and,  by 
their  force  of  unconscious  sincerity  and  passion,  are 
considered  to  surpass  their  author's  more  ornate 
poems  on  classical  subjects.  Wanted — A  Man  is 
the  chief  among  these  war  ballads ;  others  that 
ought  to  be  mentioned  are  Sumter  and  Treason's 
Last  Device.  An  exquisite  fancy,  one  of  the  most 
charming  productions  of  American  verse,  which 
does  not  belong  to  the  war  ballads,  is  the  Pan  in 
Wall  Street. 


202  American  Song. 

WANTED— A  MAN.1 

Back  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field 

Terrible  words  are  thunder-tost ; 
Full  of  the  wrath  that  will  not  yield, 

Full  of  revenge  for  battles  lost ! 
Hark  to  their  echo,  as  it  crost 

The  Capital,  making  faces  wan  : 
End  this  murderous  holocaust  ; 

Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

Give  us  a  man  of  God's  own  mould, 

Born  to  marshal  his  fellow-men  ; 
One  whose  fame  is  not  bought  and  sold 

At  the  stroke  of  a  politician's  pen  ; 
Give  us  the  man  of  thousands  ten, 

Fit  to  do  as  well  as  to  plan  ; 
Give  us  a  rallying  cry,  and  then, 

Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ? 

No  leader  to  shirk  the  boasting  foe, 

And  to  march  and  countermarch  our  brave, 
Till  they  fall  like  ghosts  in  the  marshes  low, 

And  swamp-grass  covers  each  nameless  grave  ; 
Nor  another,  whose  fatal  banners  wave 

Aye  in  disaster's  shameful  van  ; 
Nor  another,  to  bluster,  and  lie,  and  rave, — 

Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

1  This  virile  cry  for  a  fit  leader  for  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  was 
inspired  by  an  editorial  article  of  Henry  J.  Raymond  in  the  New 
York  Times.  It  was  written  in  1862,  when  the  popular  feeling  of 
chagrin  and  humiliation  over  McClellan's  failure  and  Pope's  disaster 
at  Manassas  was  most  intense.  Mr.  Lincoln  was  so  strongly  impressed 
by  the  poem  that  he  read  it  to  his  Cabinet. 


Stedman.  203 

Hearts  are  mourning  in  the  North, 
While  the  sister  rivers  seek  the  main, 

Red  with  our  life-blood  flowing  forth — 

Who  shall  gather  it  up  again  ? 

Though  we  march  to  the  battle-plain 
Firmly  as  when  the  strife  began, 

Shall  all  our  offering  be  in  vain  ? — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

Is  there  never  one  in  all  the  land, 

One  on  whose  might  the  Cause  may  lean  ? 
Are  all  the  common  ones  so  grand, 

And  all  the  titled  ones  so  mean  ! 
What  if  your  failure  may  have  been 

In  trying  to  make  good  bread  from  bran, 
From  worthless  metal  a  weapon  keen  ? — 

Abraham  Lincoln,  find  us  a  MAN  ! 

Oh,  we  will  follow  him  to  the  death, 
Where  the  foeman's  fiercest  columns  are  ! 
Oh,  we  will  use  our  latest  breath, 

Cheering  for  every  sacred  star  ! 
His  to  marshal  us  high  and  far  ; 

Ours  to  battle,  as  patriots  can 
When  a  hero  leads  the  Holy  War  ! — 

Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 


JAMES  SLOAN  GIBBONS. 


James  Sloan  Gibbons  was  born  at  Wilmington, 
Delaware,  July  I,  1820.  The  song  here  quoted  was 
published  in  1862,  but  was  until  lately  printed  anony 
mously.  The  poem,  with  its  splendid  single  line 
refrain,  was  Gibbons's  only  noted  purely  literary 
work  ;  but  he  was  as  zealous  in  behalf  of  anti-slavery 
as  might  be  expected  from  the  tone  of  his  verses. 
His  house  in  New  York  was  sacked  in  the  anti- 
slavery  riots  of  1863.  Gibbons  died  at  New  York 
City,  October  17,  1892. 


THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  MORE. 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 
more, 

From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and  from  New  Eng 
land's  shore  ; 

We  leave   our   ploughs  and  workshops,  our  wives   and 
children  dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent  tear  ; 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before  : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 
more  ! 

204 


Gibbons.  205 

If  you  look  across  the  hill-tops  that  meet  the  northern  sky, 
Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may  descry  ; 
And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil  aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and  in  pride. 
And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands  brave 

music  pour  ; 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more  ! 

If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the  growing  harvests 

shine, 
You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into 

line  ; 
And  children  from  their  mother's  knees   are  pulling  at 

the  weeds, 
And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their  country's 

needs  ; 
And  a  farewell  group   stands  weeping  at  every  cottage 

door  : 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more  ! 

You  have  called  us  and  we  're  coming,  by  Richmond's 
bloody  tide, 

To  lay  us  down  for  Freedom's  sake,  our  brothers'  bones 
beside, 

Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to  wrench  the  mur 
derous  blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to  parade. 

Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have  gone 
before  : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 
more  ! 


GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


George  Henry  Boker  was  born  at  Philadelphia, 
Penn.,  October  6,  1823,  and  died  there  January  2, 
1890.  Boker  is  the  American  who  perhaps  has  most 
fully  possessed  the  dramatic  faculty.  His  best  known 
play  is  Francesco,  da  Rimini.  Boker  excels  in  the 
delineation  of  strenuous,  often  uncontrolled  passion, 
both  in  long  scenes  and  in  short  lyrics.  Paolo,  in  the 
dialogue  with  Francesca  is  perhaps  too  improbably 
analytical  in  his  reflections,  which  in  its  parts  is  also 
unequal  in  merit.  But  in  this  drama  and  in  the 
poem,  The  Varuna,  which  in  its  progress  perhaps 
slackens  a  little  in  movement,  owing  to  imperfect 
narration,  there  is  still  powerful  work. 


THE   VARUNA. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  dauntless  Varuna  ? 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  deeds  she  has  done  ? 
Who  shall  not  hear,  while  the  brown  Mississippi 

Rushes  along  from  the  snow  to  the  sun  ? 

Crippled  and  leaking  she  entered  the  battle, 

Sinking  and  burning  she  fought  through  the  fray  ; 
206 


Boker.  20; 

Crushed  were  her  sides  and  the  waves  ran  across  her, 

Ere,  like  a  death-wounded  lion  at  bay, 
Sternly  she  closed  in  the  last  fatal  grapple, 

Then  in  her  triumph  moved  grandly  away. 

Five  of  the  rebels,  like  satellites  round  her, 
Burned  in  her  orbit  of  splendor  and  fear  ; 

One,  like  the  pleiad  of  mystical  story, 

Shot,  terror-stricken,  beyond  her  dread  sphere. 

We  who  are  waiting  with  crowns  for  the  victors, 
Though  we  should  offer  the  wealth  of  our  stores, 

Load  the  Varuna  from  deck  down  to  kelson, 
Still  would  be  niggard,  such  tribute  to  pour 

On  courage  so  boundless.     It  beggars  possession, — 
It  knocks  for  just  payment  at  Heaven's  bright  door  ! 

Cherish  the  heroes  who  fought  the  Varuna  ; 

Treat  them  as  kings  if  they  honor  your  way  ; 
Succor  and  comfort  the  sick  and  the  wounded  ; 

Oh  !  for  the  dead  let  us  all  kneel  to  pray  ! 


NATHANIEL  GRAHAM  SHEPHERD. 


Nathaniel  Graham  Shepherd  was  born  at  New 
York,  in  1835.  He  was  a  journalist,  and  at  the  time 
of  the  civil  war  a  war  correspondent.  Among  several 
war-poems  which  he  has  written,  Roll  Call  is  the 
most  popular.  Shepherd  died  at  New  York,  May 
23,  1869. 


ROLL-CALL. 

"  Corporal  Green  !  "  the  Orderly  cried  ; 
"  Here  !  "  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  the  soldier  who  stood  near,- 

And  "  Here  !  "  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

"  Cyrus  Drew  !  " — then  a  silence  fell  ; 

This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call ; 

Only  his  rear-man  had  seen  him  fall ; 
Killed  or  wounded — he  could  not  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night. 
208 


Shepherd.  209 

The  fern  on  the  hill-sides  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn  where  the  poppies  grew 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew  ; 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire, 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

"  Herbert  Kline  !  "     At  the  call  there  came 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Kline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 

"  Ezra  Kerr  !  " — and  a  voice  answered,  "  Here  !  " 

"  Hiram  Kerr  !  " — but  no  man  replied. 

They  were  brothers,  these  two  ;  the  sad  winds  sighed, 
And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 

"  Ephraim  Deane  !  " — then  a  soldier  spoke  ; 

"  Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said  ; 

"  Where  our  ensign  was  shot  I  left  him  dead, 
Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies  ; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  a  drink  ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 
And  death  came  with  it,  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'T  was  a  victory  ;  yes,  but  it  cost  us  dear, — 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered  "  Here  !  " 


ABRAHAM  JOSEPH  RYAN. 


Abraham  Joseph  Ryan  was  born  at  Norfolk,  Va., 
August  15,  1839.  Father  Ryan  was  a  Catholic 
priest,  and  a  confederate  chaplain  through  the  war. 
He  was  also  a  writer  of  war-poems,  known  most 
widely  by  The  Conquered  Banner,  in  which  with  the 
old  fervor  for  that  flag  which 

"  will  live  in  song  and  story," 
is  mingled  decisive  resignation  and  counsel  to 

"  Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly  !  "— 
and  to 

"  Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, — 
For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled." 

Ryan  died  at  Louisville,  Ky.,  April  22,  1886. 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

Furl  that  Banner,  for  't  is  weary, 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary  ; 

Furl  it,  fold  it, — it  is  best  ; 
For  there  's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 

210 


Ryan. 


21  I 


And  there  's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there  's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it, 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 
Furl  it,  hide  it, — let  it  rest ! 

Take  that  Banner  down  !  't  is  tattered  ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered, 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high  ; 
Oh,  't  is  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  to  think  there  's  none  to  hold  it, 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh  ! 

Furl  that  Banner — furl  it  sadly  ; 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave — 
Swore  that  foemen's  swords  could  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
And  that  flag  should  wave  forever 

O'er  their  freedom,  or  their  grave  ! 

Furl  it  ! — for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low  ; 
And  the  Banner — it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing, 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe  ; 
For  though  conquered,  they  adore  it — 
Love  the  cold  dead  hands  that  bore  it, 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it, 


212  American  Song. 

Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it  ; 
And,  oh,  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so  ! 

Furl  that  Banner  !     True  't  is  gory, 
Yet  't  is  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  't  will  live  in  song  and  story 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust  ! 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must  ! 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly  ; 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead  ; 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never  ; 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, — 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


(For  biographical  notice  see  under  "Classics.") 


OLD  IRONSIDES. 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar  ; — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 
213 


214  American  Song. 

O  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave  ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  thread-bare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


in.    Contemporaries. 

THE  war-ballads  of  1861,  and  the  poems  of 
authors  for  the  most  part  still  living,  form  the  char 
acteristic  element  in  the  verse  of  the  country  for  the 
last  forty  years.  What  shall  be  said  of  it  ?  Has  it 
continued  the  poetic  tradition  formed  by  the  "  Clas 
sics  ?  "  And  what  has  been  its  own  force  and  indi 
cation  ? 

Considering  the  general  dearth  of  poetry  through 
out  the  civilized  world  as  compared  to  the  splendid 
lyric  flowering  of  half  or  three  quarters  of  a  century 
ago,  it  is  not  strange  that  America  does  not  at  this 
moment  teem  with  new  and  stirring  poetry.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  total  amount  of  the  poetry  current 
has  been  greater  than  might  be  estimated  from  the 
common  reference  and  the  rather  general  disparage 
ment.  By  careful  comparison  and  collation  of  dates, 
it  could  be  readily  shown  that  the  last  twenty-five 
years  has  been  one  of  the  most  fruitful  periods  for 
poetry  in  America,  perhaps  only  second  in  value  to 
the  twenty-five  years,  of  which  1850  was  the  centre.1 
This  productiveness  has  not  been  confined  to  those 

1  Reckon  up,  for  instance,  what  Lowell  has  written  since  the 
Commemoration  Ode,  Whittier  since  The  Tent  on  the  Beach,  and  all 
that  Lanier  has  written  ;  and  add  the  poems  of  Miller,  Bret  Harte, 
O'Reilly,  Riley,  Woodberry,  and  others. 

215 


216  American  Song. 

whose  names  have  for  nearly  fifty  years  been  historic. 
On  the  contrary,  while  few  have  startled  with  claims 
for  greatness,  poetry  as  an  art  has  been  widespread  ; 
more  literary  workmen  than  ever  before  have  had 
skill  and  have  secured  for  it  recognition,  and  sincerity 
in  the  expression  of  the  poet's  personality  has  been 
greater  than  any  imitative  dependence  on  foreign 
models. 

Another  advance  has  been  in  the  evolution  of  in 
dividuals  or  groups  in  different  sections  of  the 
country,  who  have,  in  a  measure,  given  the  feeling 
and  the  physiognomy  of  their  locality.  New  Eng 
land  had  already  been  sung;  but  as  an  expression 
of  the  breadth  of  national  life  and  consciousness, 
have  appeared  singers  in  New  York,  in  the  South,  in 
the  middle  West,  and  in  California.  Others  have 
presented  their  own  emotions  as  dominant  over  the 
intellectual  wealth  of  the  Old  World. 

Among  this  poetry,  the  verse  written  in  New  York 
has  possibly  had  the  greatest  breadth  and  national 
character  ;  not  only  the  scenes  of  the  city  itself,  but 
those  of  the  country  as  a  whole,  and  often  world-wide 
themes  have  attracted  writers.  The  South  has  a 
poetry  of  peace  as  well  as  of  war  which  may  be  charac 
terized  as  being  proudly  and  loyally  self-centred.  The 
middle  West  has  been  the  least  fertile  of  all.  We 
do  not  know  that  region  yet  in  its  capacity  for  sug- 
gestiveness.  Noteworthy,  however,  is  the  Californian 
group,  whose  productions  have  shown  luxuriant 
fancy,  but  have  been  somewhat  stinted  by  lack  of 
favorable  material  conditions  in  their  section  of  the 
country.  With  reference  to  the  whole  group  of 


Contemporaries.  2 1 7 

"Contemporaries,"  it  may  be  noted  that  there  has 
been  a  good  deal  of  attention  to  form.  Slovenliness 
has  been  a  less  common  fault  than  artificiality  ;  and 
while  a  studied  disregard  of  art  has  made  its  appear 
ance  once,  it  has  not  found  favor.  Perhaps,  how 
ever,  too  much  attention  has  been  paid  to  form,  and 
too  little  to  matter.  For  form  itself  is  only  a  means 
to  an  end,  although,  on  the  lower  plane  of  subjects, 
it  sometimes  deceives  by  seeming  to  be  an  end  in 
itself ;  and  in  successful  higher  work  by  being  almost 
identical  with  its  idea.  Whitman,  Taylor,  and 
Lanier  are  in  this  period  figures  all  worthy  of  special 
study,  and  the  selections  from  them  have  therefore 
been  put  in  a  subdivision  by  themselves.  Other 
poets  have  written  work  which  in  a  general  consider 
ation  cannot  be  overlooked.  Of  them,  the  most 
picturesque  and  striking  figure  has  been  Joaquin 
Miller.  He  is  a  poet  by  temperament,  but  one  of  a 
temperament  more  common  in  the  early  years  of  the 
century  than  in  these  days  of  colder  blood.  His 
poems  have  a  wealth  and  gorgeousness  of  color  that 
no  American  has  equalled.  Of  late  his  work  has  ex 
hibited  signs  of  a  revising  care  that  not  all  poets 
give.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  is  a  poet  of  exquisite 
culture.  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  had  a  life  and  char 
acter  more  worthy  even  than  the  metrical  frame 
which  surrounds  the  sketch  of  it.  Among  the  poets 
of  the  South,  Hayne  possessed  a  gentleness  and 
humor,  and  Timrod  a  thought  and  seriousness  that 
render  them  both  of  marked  attractiveness. 

Without  mentioning  others,  it  may  be  said  that 
for  few  in  this  period  has  poetry  been  constantly  the 


218  American  Song. 

one  aim.  With  some  it  is  only  an  utterance  of 
momentary  youthful  sentiment ;  others  have  not 
reached  any  real  mastery  until  after  middle  life.  For 
most  of  them,  apparently,  nature  and  experience 
are  not  rich  enough,  or  perseverance  in  the  poetic 
direction  great  enough,  for  rilling  out  a  life  devoted 
to  the  Muses. 

For  the  few,  however,  who  would  have  devoted 
themselves  thus,  those  to  whom  health  or  wealth  or 
life  itself  were  as  nothing  in  their  eyes  in  comparison 
with  the  prize  of  their  high  calling,  circumstances 
have  been  hard,  though  never  wholly  baffling.  No 
one  of  these  men  has,  like  Lanier,  died  so  young  as 
to  fail  in  entering  on  the  path  of  glory  ;  though  no 
one  of  them  has  as  yet  achieved  the  assured  fame  of 
a  "  classic." 

Some  one  has  said  that  the  present  ideal  in  Amer 
ican  poetry  is  an  aggregation  of  distinct  types. 
For  the  successful  master  of  the  verse  of  his  land 
the  ideal  is  rather  an  assimilation  of  these  types  by 
the  artist,  a  reconstruction  and  reproportioning  to  a 
fairer  whole. 

Such  a  purpose  is  not,  perhaps,  out  of  reach  of  the 
lyrist ;  but  there  are  some  signs  of  movement  toward 
drama,  which  is  better  adapted  to  the  vast  and 
varied  phenomena  of  a  nation's  life.  Thus  far,  at 
tempts  have  been  few,  and  if  popular,  they  have 
been  rude  in  form  and  primitive  in  treatment ;  but 
the  drama  which  is  both  representative  and  civilized 
must  show  both  the  plainest  and  the  stateliest  of 
life,  subject  to  such  dramatic  conditions  as  come  into 
existence  only  at  rare  epochs. 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH. 


Christopher  Pearse  Cranch  was  born  at  Alexan 
dria,  Va.,  March  8,  1813.  He  was  a  painter  and  a 
poet,  residing  in  Europe  for  several  years,  later  on 
Staten  Island,  in  Cambridge,  and  in  New  York. 
Cranch  died  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  January  20,  1892. 

Cranch's  poetry  is  a  union  of  the  grave  and  the 
gay.  One  might,  on  the  reading  of  some  pieces  of 
his,  ascribe  to  him  a  perpetual  and  irrepressible  liveli 
ness,  were  it  not  for  his  lines  of  sober  meditation. 
An  instance  of  this  latter  style  is  found  in  the 
Stanzas,  which  flow  forth,  however,  with  as  graceful 
limpidity  as  any  of  his  lighter  productions. 


STANZAS. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils  : 
Man  by  man  was  never  seen  ; 
219 


220  American  Song. 

All  our  deep  communion  fails 
To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known  ; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet  ; 
We  are  columns  left  alone, 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart,  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie  ; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream  ? 

What  our  wise  philosophy 
But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought ; 

Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught ; 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  font  which  gave  them  birth, 

And  by  inspiration  led, 
Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 


William  Wetmore  Story,  represents  at  present 
more  completely  than  any  other,  the  American  artist 
at  once  in  marble  and  in  song.  Story  was  bor\  at 
Salem,  Mass.,  February  12,  1819,  and  is  the  son  of 
Chief  Justice  Story.  He  was  graduated  at  Harvard 
and  entered  the  bar,  but  settled  in  Italy  in  1848. 
Besides  his  sculpture,  he  has  given  to  the  world  vol 
umes  of  poems  in  his  youth  and  age.  His  subjects 
deal  with  the  region  of  the  purely  cultivated  tastes 
rather  than  with  the  every-day  life  of  the  people. 


THE  THREE  SINGERS. 

"  Where  is  a  singer  to  cheer  me  ? 
My  heart  is  weary  with  sadness, 
I  long  for  a  verse  of  gladness  !  " 
Thus  cried  the  Shah  to  his  Vizier. 

He  sat  on  his  couch  of  crimson, 
And  silent  he  smoked,  and  waited, 
Till  a  youth  with  face  elated, 
Entered,  and  bent  before  him. 


222  American  Song. 

He  swung  the  harp  from  his  shoulder, 
And  ran  o'er  its  strings,  preluding, 
O'er  his  thought  for  a  moment  brooding, 
Then  his  song  went  up  into  sunshine. 

It  leaped  like  the  fountain,  breaking 
At  the  top  of  its  aspiration, 
It  fell  from  its  culmination, 
In  tears,  to  life's  troubled  level. 

He  sang  of  the  boundless  future, 
That  had  the  gates  of  the  morning, 
His  fancies  the  song  adorning, 
Like  pearls  on  a  white-necked  maiden. 

"  My  hope,  like  a  hungered  lion," 
He  sang,  "  for  its  prey  is  panting  ; 
Oh  !  what  is  so  glad,  so  enchanting 
As  Manhood,  and  Fame,  and  Freedom. 

"To  youth  there  is  nothing  given, 
The  fruit  on  the  high  palm  groweth, 
And  thither  life's  caravan  goeth, 
For  rest  and  delight  in  its  shadow." 

He  ceased, — and  the  Shah,  half  smiling, 
Beckoned,  and  said,  "  Stay  near  me, 
Your  song  hath  a  charm  to  cheer  me  : 
Ask  !  what  you  ask  shall  be  given. 

"  Now  bring  me  that  other  singer, 
That  ere  I  was  born,  enchanted 
The  world  with  a  song  undaunted  !  " 
They  went, — and  an  old  man  entered. 


Story. 


223 


His  forehead  beneath  his  turban 
Was  wrinkled, — he  entered  slowly, — 
Bending — and  bending  more  lowly, 
Waited, — the  Shah  commanded — 

"  Sing  me  a  song  ;  "  his  fingers 

Over  the  light  strings  trembled, 

And  the  sounds  of  the  strings  resembled 

The  wind,  in  the  cypresses  grieving. 

He  sang  of  the  time  departec1, 
In  his  song,  as  in  some  calm  river, 
Where  temples  and  palm-trees  quiver, 
But  pass  not — his  youth  was  imaged. 

"  Our  shadow  that  lay  behind  us, 
Ere  the  noon-day  sun  passed  o'er  us, 
Now  darkens  the  path  before  us, 
As  we  walk  away  from  our  morning. 

"  Oh  !  where  are  the  friends  that  beside  us, 

WTalked  in  the  garden  of  roses  ; 

The  dear  head  no  longer  reposes 

On  the  bosom,  to  feel  the  heart's  beating. 

"  Oh,  Life  !  't  is  a  verse  so  crooked, 
On  Fate's  sharp  scimitar  written, 
And  Joy — a  pomegranate  bitten 
By  a  worm  that  preys  at  its  centre." 

He  ceased,  and  the  harp's  vibration 
Throbbed  only, — a  slow  tear  twinkled 
On  the  rim  of  those  eyes,  so  wrinkled, 
And  the  fountain  renewed  its  plashing. 


224  American  Song. 

The  Shah  was  silent — a  dimness 
Clouded  his  eyes — from  his  finger 
He  drew  a  great  ruby — the  singer 
Bowed  low  at  this  token  of  honor. 

At  last,  from  his  musing  arousing, 
He  spoke,  "  Is  there  none  you  can  bring  me 
The  praise  of  the  present  to  sing  me. 
Seek  him  and  bring  him  before  me." 

He  waited — the  morning — the  noonday 
Passed — at  last,  when  the  shadows 
Lengthened  on  gardens  and  meadows, 
A  poor,  maimed  cripple,  they  brought  him. 

"What ! you  sing  the  praise  of  the  present ; 
You,  by  Fortune  and  Fate  so  forsaken, 
What  charms  can  the  Present  awaken  ?  " 
"  I  love  and  am  loved,"  was  the  answer. 


THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS. 


Thomas  William  Parsons  is  best  known  as  the 
author  of  the  lines  On  a  Bust  of  Dante.  He  was 
born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  August  18,  1819.  He  gave 
himself  thoroughly  to  the  study  of  Italian,  especially 
Dante,  spending  much  time  in  Italy.  Parsons  died 
at  Scituate,  Mass.,  September  3,  1892. 

The  themes  of  his  poems  are  usually  of  a  grave 
and  elevated  order.  A  number  of  them  have  a  stern, 
tragic  beauty,  which  is  largely  subjective  with  their 
artist. 


ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE. 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  :  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song  ! 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide  ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng  ; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

1  Arno,  An  Italian  river  flowing  through  Florence. 
15  225 


226  American  Song. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was, — but  a  fight  ! 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 
To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  '  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  2  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin. 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 

When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 

To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade  ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 

Was  peace,  that  pilgrim's  one  request. 

Peace  dwells  not  here — this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 

1  Ghibeline,  a  political  party  in  Florence. 

9  Cuma,  a  preclassic  town  of  Italy  where  dwelt  the  Sibyl. 


Parsons.  227 

Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 

When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 
The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 

The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth  ; 
Baron  and  Duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth. 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ; 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime, 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

Oh  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 

The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou  ! 
That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium's  '  other  Virgil  now  : 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow  ; 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 

1  Latium,  the  ancient  name  of  the  region  of  Italy  whence  arose  the 
Latins, 


ALICE  GARY. 


Alice  Gary  was  born  at  Miami  Valley,  near  Cin 
cinnati,  Ohio,  April  20,  1820.  While  still  young, 
she  published,  in  collaboration  with  her  sister  Phcebe 
Gary,  various  single  poems,  and  in  1850  her  first  vol 
ume.  She  died  in  New  York,  February  12,  1871. 

Much  of  Alice  Gary's  work  has  the  true  poetic 
method  of  indirectness,  especially  in  The  Gray 
Swan.  The  details  of  this  story  are  suggested  rather 
than  expressed  ;  the  gradual  revealing  of  the  sailor's 
identity,  the  emotions  of  the  mother,  and  the  char 
acter  of  the  sailor  are  presented  with  art.  In  this 
respect  the  poem  is  one  of  the  finest  in  American 
literature. 


THE  GRAY  SWAN. 

"  Oh  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true, 
Is  my  little  lad,  my  Elihu 
A-sailing  with  your  ship  ?  " 
The  sailor's  eyes  were  dim  with  dew, — 
"  Your  little  lad,  your  Elihu  ?  " 
He  said  with  trembling  lip, — 
"  What  little  lad  ?  what  ship  ?  " 
228 


Gray. 


229 


"  What  little  lad  !  as  if  there  could  be 
Another  such  an  one  as  he  ! 
What  little  lad,  do  you  say  ? 
Why,  Elihu,  that  took  to  the  sea 
The  moment  I  put  him  off  my  knee ; 
It  was  just  the  other  day 
The  Gray  Swan  sailed  away." 

"  The  other  day  ?  "  the  sailor's  eyes 

Stood  open  with  a  great  surprise, — 

"  The  other  day  ?  the  Swan  ?  " 

His  heart  began  in  his  throat  to  rise. 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,  here  in  the  cupboard  lies 

The  jacket  he  had  on." 

"  And  so  your  lad  is  gone  ?  " 

"  Gone  with  the  Swan."     "  And  did  she  stand 

With  her  anchor  clutching  hold  of  the  sand 

For  a  month  and  never  stir  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  be  sure  !    I  've  seen  from  the  land, 

Like  a  lover  kissing  his  lady's  hand, 

The  wild  sea  kissing  her, — 

A  sight  to  remember,  sir." 

"  But,  my  good  mother,  do  you  know 
All  this  was  twenty  years  ago  ? 
I  stood  on  the  Gray  Swan's  deck, 
And  to  that  lad  I  saw  you  throw, 
Taking  it  off,  as  it  might  be,  so  ! 
The  kerchief  from  your  neck." 
"  Ay,  and  he  '11  bring  it  back  !  " 

"  And  did  the  little  lawless  lad 

That  has  made  you  sick  and  made  you  sad, 

Sail  with  the  Gray  Swan's  crew  ?  " 


230  American  Song. 

11  Lawless  !  the  man  is  going  mad  ! 
The  best  boy  ever  mother  had, — 
Be  sure  he  sailed  with  the  crew  ! 
What  would  you  have  him  do  ?  " 

"  And  he  has  never  written  line 

Nor  sent  you  word,  nor  made  you  sign 

To  say  he  was  alive  ?  " 

"  Hold  !  if  't  was  wrong,  the  wrong  is  mine  ; 

Besides,  he  may  be  in  the  brine  ? 

And  could  he  write  from  the  grave  ? 

Tut,  man  ?  what  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Gone  twenty  years, — a  long,  long  cruise, — 

'T  was  wicked  thus  your  love  to  abuse  ; 

But  if  the  lad  still  live 

And  come  back  home,  think  you  you  can 

Forgive  him  ? "     "  Miserable  man, 

You  're  mad  as  the  sea, — you  rave, — 

What  have  I  to  forgive  ? " 

The  sailor  twitched  his  shirt  so  blue, 

And  from  within  his  bosom  drew 

The  kerchief.     She  was  wild. 

"  My  God  !  my  Father  !  is  it  true  ? 

My  little  lad,  my  Elihu  ! 

My  blessed  boy,  my  child  ! 

My  dead,  my  living  child  !  " 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 


Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  was  born  at  Cam 
bridge,  Mass.,  December  22,  1823.  He  was  gradu 
ated  at  Harvard,  became  an  ardent  anti-slavery 
agitator,  and  had  an  honorable  career  in  the  war  as 
an  officer  of  colored  troops.  For  much  of  his  life  he 
has  given  himself  to  literary  pursuits.  Besides 
essays  and  stories,  he  has  published  a  series  of 
poems,  some  of  which  are  marked  by  exuberance  of 
joyous  emotion. 


THE  MADONNA  DI  SAN  SISTO.1 

Look  down  into  my  heart, 

Thou  holy  mother,  with  thy  holy  Son  ! 

Read  all  my  thoughts  and  bid  the  doubts  depart, 

And  all  the  fears  be  done. 

I  lay  my  spirit  bare, 

O  blessed  ones,  beneath  your  wondrous  eyes, 
And  not  in  vain  ;  ye  hear  my  heart-felt  prayer, 
And  your  twin-gaze  replies. 

1   The  Madonna  di  San   Sisto,  Raphael's  most    celebrated   Ma 
donna. 

231 


232  American  Song. 

What  says  it  ?     All  that  life 
Demands  of  those  who  live,  to  be  and  do, — 
Calmness  in  all  its  bitterest,  deepest  uiir.  • 
Courage,  till  all  is  through. 

Thou  mother  !  in  thy  sight 
Can  aught  of  passion  or  despair  remain  ? 
Beneath  those  eyes'  serene  and  holy  light 
The  soul  is  bright  again. 

Thou  Son  !  whose  earnest  gaze 
Looks  ever  forward,  fearless,  steady,  strong ; 
Beneath  those  eyes  no  doubt  or  weakness  stays, 
Nor  fear  can  linger  long. 

Thanks,  that  to  my  weak  heart 

Your  mingled  powers,  fair  forms,  such  counsel  give, 

Till  I  have  learned  the  lesson  ye  impart, 

I  have  not  learned  to  live. 

And  oh,  till  life  is  done, 

Of  your  deep  gaze  may  ne'er  the  impression  cease  ! 
Still  may  the  dark  eyes  whisper,  "  Courage  !  On  !  " 
The  mild  eyes  murmur,  "  Peace  !  " 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


Richard  Henry  Stoddard  has  won  fame  as  poet, 
critic,  and  man  of  letters,  while  bound  for  many 
years  by  the  responsibilities  of  business  or  of  office. 
Stoddard  was  born  at  Hingham,  Mass.,  July  2,  1825. 
He  has  published  a  number  of  volumes  of  verse,  of 
which  the  earliest  bears  date  1849.  He  has  been 
an  old  associate  and  friend  of  Bayard  Taylor  and  of 
Stedman. 

Stoddard's  verse  takes  a  wide  range.  It  would  be 
impossible  in  a  brief  mention  to  touch  upon  all  his 
poetic  undertakings ;  but  he  is  forcible  alike  in 
themes  of  home  or  of  foreign  lands.  Stoddard's 
literary  qualities  are  grace  of  fancy,  strength,  spon 
taneity,  and  shicerity. 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

Not  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must, 
Makes  up  the  sum  of  living  ; 
Heaven  is  both  more  and  less  than  just 
In  taking  and  in  giving. 

Swords  cleave  to  hands  that  sought  the  plough, 
And  laurels  miss  the  soldier's  brow. 
233 


234  American  Song. 

Me,  whom  the  city  holds,  whose  feet 
Have  worn  its  stony  highways, 
Familiar  with  its  loneliest  street, — 
Its  ways  were  never  my  ways. 
My  cradle  was  beside  the  sea, 
And  there,  I  hope,  my  grave  will  be. 

Old  homestead  ! — in  that  old,  gray  town 
Thy  wave  is  seaward  blowing  ; 
Thy  slip  of  garden  stretches  down 
To  where  the  tide  is  flowing  ; 
Below  they  lie,  their  sails  all  furled, 
The  ships  that  go  about  the  world. 

Dearer  that  little  country  house, 

Inland,  with  pines  beside  it  ; 

Some  peach  trees  with  unfruitful  boughs, 

A  well,  with  weeds  to  hide  it ; 

No  flowers,  or  only  such  as  rise 

Self-sown, — poor  things  ! — which  all  despise. 

Dear  country  home  !  can  I  forget 

The  least  of  thy  sweet  trifles  ? 

The  windows — vines  that  clamber  yet, 

Whose  bloom  the  bee  still  rifles? 

The  roadside  blackberries,  growing  ripe, 

And  in  the  woods  the  Indian  Pipe  ? 

Happy  the  man  who  tills  his  field, 

Content  with  rustic  labor  ; 

Earth  does  to  him  her  fulness  yield, 

Hap  what  may  to  his  neighbor. 

Well  days,  sound  nights, — oh,  can  there  be 

A  life  more  rational  and  free  ? 


Stoddard. 

Dear  country  life  of  child  and  man  ! 
For  both  the  best  and  strongest, 
That  with  the  earliest  race  began, 
And  hast  outlived  the  longest : 
Their  cities  perished  long  ago, 
Who  the  first  farmers  were  we  know. 

Perhaps  our  Babels  too  will  fall ; 

If  so,  no  lamentations, 

For  Mother  Earth  will  shelter  all, 

And  feed  the  unborn  nations  ! 

Yes,  and  the  swords  that  menace  now 

Will  then  be  beaten  to  the  plough. 


235 


LUCY  LARCOM. 


Lucy  Larcom  was  born  at  Beverly,  Mass.,  in  1826. 
In  her  early  life  she  associated  closely  with  working 
people,  and  from  this  experience  she  has  drawn 
much  of  the  material  in  her  songs  of  labor.  Some 
of  Lucy  Larcom's  work  has  homely  qualities,  and 
resembles  certain  of  the  poems  of  Whittier,  with 
whom  she  has  had  an  intimate  literary  friendship. 
Her  verse  has  also  picturesque  elements,  and  the 
more  ethereal  thought  which  springs  from  brooding 
on  the  nature  of  flowers  and  of  clouds.  A  spiritual 
touch  is  thus  infused  into  her  poetry,  refining  the 
most  common  subjects,  and  giving  them  the  liveli 
ness  which,  with  a  certain  clear  cut-purpose,  consti 
tutes  the  charm  of  her  poems. 


A  HAREBELL. 

Mother,  if  I  were  a  flower, 
Instead  of  a  little  child, 
I  would  choose  my  home  by  a  waterfall, 
To  laugh  at  its  gambols  wild, 
To  be  sprinkled  with  spray  and  dew  ; 
And  I  'd  be  a  harebell  blue. 
236 


Larcom.  237 


Blue  is  the  color  of  heaven, 

And  blue  is  the  color  for  me. 

But  in  the  rough  earth  my  clinging  roots 

Closely  nestled  should  be  ; 

For  the  earth  is  friendly  and  true 

To  the  little  harebell  blue. 

I  could  not  look  up  to  the  sun 

As  the  bolder  blossoms  look  ; 

But  he  would  look  up  with  a  smile  to  me 

From  his  mirror  in  the  brook  ; 

And  his  smile  would  thrill  me  through, 

A  trembling  harebell  blue. 

The  winds  would  not  break  my  stem 

When  they  rushed  in  tempest  by  ; 

I  would  bend  before  them,  for  they  come 

From  the  loving  Hand  on  high, 

That  never  a  harm  can  do 

To  a  slender  harebell  blue. 

I  would  play  with  shadow  and  breeze  ; 

I  would  blossom  from  June  till  frost. 

Dear  Mother,  I  know  you  would  find  me  out, 

When  my  stream-side  cliff  you  crossed  ; 

And  I  'd  give  myself  to  you — 

Your  own  little  harebell  blue. 


ROSE  TERRY  COOKE. 


Rose  Terry  Cooke  was  born  at  West  Hartford, 
Conn.,  February  17,  1827,  and  died  at  Pittsfield, 
Mass.,  July  18,  1892.  Mrs.  Cooke  has  published 
several  volumes  of  poems.  In  some  of  her  work,  as 
in  that  of  most  women  who  write  verse,  emotion  is 
somewhat  too  restless,  and  ambitions  are  too  little 
subdued  and  guided.  In  certain  of  her  pieces,  how 
ever,  of  a  modest  effort,  womanly  feeling  is  gracefully 
presented.  Mrs.  Cooke's  method  is,  under  a  light 
and  fanciful  guise,  to  advance  true  criticism  of  life. 
Columbine  and  Indolence  are  two  of  her  best  poems. 


COLUMBINE. 

Little  dancing  harlequin  ! 
Thou  thy  scarlet  bells  dost  ring 
When  the  merry  western  wind 
Gives  their  slender  stems  a  swing  ; 
Every  yellow  butterfly, 
Rising  on  the  fragrant  air  ; 
Glittering  insects  everywhere, 
Moths  that  in  the  dead  leases  lie, 
List  the  tinkling  chime  that  tells 
Of  the  Spring's  aerial  spells. 
238 


Cooke.  239 

In  the  long  and  shining  days 
May-time  swings  to  mother  Earth, 
From  the  stony  crevices 
Dry  with  sun  and  grey  with  dearth, 
Where  no  other  bloom  can  cling, 
Thou  dost  lift  thy  dainty  spire, 
Slight  and  subtle  mist  of  fire 
O'er  the  rock  face  shimmering, 
Nodding,  swaying,  scattering  wide 
Flame  and  gold  on  every  side. 

No  faint  odor  fills  thy  cup, 
Nothing  knowest  thou  but  cheer, 
Over  thee  no  memory 
Floats  its  pennant  sad  and  dear. 
Gay  and  fleeting  as  is  laughter, 
Or  a  little  joyful  song 
Wandering  the  woods  along, 
That  no  echo  cometh  after  ; 
Idle  moth  and  strenuous  bee 
Know  that  honey  dwells  in  thee. 

When  thy  motley  opens  wide, 
Then  the  summer  draweth  near  ; 
Then  the  sunshine  shall  abide, 
Vanished  is  the  winter  fear, 
Snowdrifts  never  come  again 
When  thou  standest  sentinel, 
Shouting  gayly  :  "  All  is  well," 
To  the  blooms  on  hill  and  plain 
Summer-bringing  columbine, 
Make  thy  happy  errand  mine. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  was  born  at  Portsmouth, 
N.  H.,  November  n,  1836.  He  was  prevented,  on 
account  of  the  death  of  his  father,  from  carrying  out 
a  purpose  he  had  formed  of  going  to  college,  and 
devoted  himself  instead,  to  writing  for  the  press.  At 
the  age  of  twenty  he  published  The  Ballad  of  Baby 
Bell,  which  is  as  fresh  now  as  when  written,  and  may 
perhaps  still  be  considered  his  best  poem.  Wedded 
shows  his  exquisite  finish  of  style,  and  his  power  of 
fitly  condensing  strong  emotion  into  a  short  poem. 
He  has  written  some  charming  prose  stories  and 
studies,  based  on  the  New  England  life  he  knows  so 
well. 

WEDDED. 

(Proven  fal  Air.1) 

The  happy  bells  shall  ring, 

Marguerite  ; 
The  summer  birds  shall  sing, 

Marguerite — 

1  Provencal,  the  Romance  language  used  in  the  south  of  France. 
240 


Aldrich.  241 

You  smile,  but  you  shall  wear 

Orange-blossoms  in  your  hair, 

Marguerite. 

Ah  me  !  the  bells  have  rung, 

Marguerite  ; 
The  summer  birds  have  sung — 

Marguerite — 
But  cypress-leaf  and  rue 
Make  a  sorry  wreath  for  you, 

Marguerite. 

16 


ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN. 


Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  was  born  at  Strong,  Frank 
lin  County,  Maine,  October  9,  1832.  She  published 
a  volume  of  poetry  in  1852,  and  a  second  in  1867. 
Since  then  her  writings  have  received  a  large  meas 
ure  of  popular  appreciation.  She  is  remarkable  as 
a  poet  of  the  love  that  is  irrespective  of  sex.  Her 
best  known  poem  is  Backward,  Tiirn  Backward,  O 
Time,  in  Your  Flight.  The  Grass  Is  Greener  Where 
She  Sleeps  is,  however,  simpler  and  less  conven 
tional  in  tone.  Other  poems  of  a  like  description  are 
the  sonnet,  A  Dream,  and  A  Spring  Love-Song. 


THE  GRASS  IS  GREENER  WHERE  SHE 
SLEEPS. 

The  grass  is  greener  where  she  sleeps, 
The  birds  sing  softlier  there, 

And  nature  fondliest  vigil  keeps 
Above  a  face  so  fair, — 

For  she  was  innocent  and  sweet 
As  mortal  thing  can  be, — 
242 


AIL 


en.  243 


The  only  heart  that  ever  beat 

That  beat  alone  for  me. 
To  me  her  dearest  thoughts  were  told, 

Her  sweetest  carols  sung  ; 
To  her  my  love  song  never  old, 

My  face  was  always  young. 
Ah,  life  seems  drear  and  little  worth, 

Since  she  has  ceased  to  be, — 
The  only  heart  in  all  the  earth 

That  never  loved  but  me. 


CELIA  LAIGHTON  THAXTER. 


The  poems  of  Celia  Thaxter  are  such  as  no  one 
could  write  who  did  not  know  by  continuous  obser 
vations  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  the  sea. 

Celia  Laighton  Thaxter  was  born  at  Portsmouth, 
N.  H.,  in  1836.  Her  girlhood  was  spent  on  the  Isles 
of  Shoals,  where  her  father  was  light-house  keeper. 
She  has  published  several  volumes  of  poems,  some 
of  the  most  characteristic  of  which  describe  the  more 
sombre  features  of  the  seashore,  such  as  the  ocean 
tempest,  the  emotions  of  the  watchers  on  the  land, 
and  the  shipwreck. 


THE  MINUTE-GUNS. 

I  stood  within  the  little  cove, 

Full  of  the  morning's  life  and  hope, 

While  heavily  the  eager  waves 

Charged  thundering  up  the  rocky  slope. 

The  splendid  breakers  !     How  they  rushed 
All  emerald  green  and  flashing  white, 

Tumultuous  in  the  morning  sun, 
With  cheer  and  sparkle  and  delight ! 
241 


Thaxter.  245 

And  freshly  blew  the  fragrant  wind, 
The  wild  sea-wind,  across  their  tops, 

And  caught  the  spray  and  flung  it  far, 
In  sweeping  showers  of  glittering  drops. 

Within  the  cove  all  flashed  and  foamed 
With  many  a  fleeting  rainbow  hue  ; 

Without,  gleamed  bright  against  the  sky, 
A  tender  wavering  line  of  blue, 

Where  tossed  the  distant  waves,  and  far 

Shone  silver  white  a  quiet  sail ; 
And  overhead  the  soaring  gulls 

With  graceful  pinions  stemmed  the  gale. 

And  all  my  pulses  thrilled  with  joy, 
Watching  the  winds'  and  waters'  strife, 

With  sudden  rapture,  and  I  cried, 

"  Oh,  sweet  is  life  !  Thank  God,  for  life  ! " 

Sailed  any  cloud  across  the  sky, 

Marring  this  glory  of  the  sun's  ? 
Over  the  sea  from  distant  forts, 

There  came  the  boom  of  minute-guns  ! 

War  tidings  !     Many  a  brave  soul  fled 
And  many  a  heart  the  message  stuns  ! 

I  saw  no  more  the  joyous  waves, 
I  only  heard  the  minute-guns. 


HENRY  TIMROD. 


Henry  Timrod  was  born  at  Charleston,  S.  C., 
December  8,  1829.  He  studied  at  the  University  of 
Georgia,  and  afterwards  tried  journalism,  but  died 
after  a  rather  sad  experience  of  ill-health  and 
poverty,  at  Columbia,  S.  C.,  October  6,  1867. 

Timrod  is  a  poet  less  known  doubtless  than  he 
might  well  be.  He  has  written  several  war  songs 
which  are  excellent  of  their  kind.  His  best  piece  of 
work,  however,  is  The  Cotton  Boll,  which  combines 
description  and  reverie,  and  in  which  he  has  given 
evidence  of  capacity  that  his  shortened  life  did  not 
permit  him  fully  to  develop. 


THE  COTTON  BOLL.1 

While  I  recline 

At  ease  beneath 

This  immemorial  pine, 

Small  sphere  ! 

(By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  here 

And  shown  with  boastful  smiles), 

1  The  boll  is  the  seed  vessel  of  the  cotton. 
246 


Timrod.  247 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 

Through  which  the  soft  white  fibres  peer, 

That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands, 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear-grass  from  his  swinging  bed, 

Is  scarce  more  fine  ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noon-daylight 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round, 

And  burns  some  city  here 

Into  the  restless  main, 

With  all  his  capes  and  isles  ! 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest, 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 

And  never  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest, 

Rings  down  some  golden  chime, 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 

So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 


248  American  Song. 

Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands, 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 

Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns  ; 

And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 

Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hill  and  purple  lawns 

Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their  streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star  ! 

And  lo  ! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow, 

The  endless  field  is  white  ; 

And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 

For  many  a  shining  league  away, 

With  such  accumulated  light 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day  ! 

Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands — 

More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 

Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 

Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale, 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  tale — 

Beyond  all  mortal  sense 

Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see, 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if,  with  Uriel's  '  crown, 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun. 

And  looked,  as  Uriel  down  !) 

Nor  lack  here  pastures  rich  and  fields  all  green 

1  Uriel,  "  God's  Light,"  the  archangel, 

"  One  of  the  seven 

Who  in  God's  presence,  nearest  to  his  throne, 
Stand  ready  at  command." 

MlLTON,  Paradise  Lost. 


Timrod.  249 

With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God. 

For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen 

Weave  Edens  of  the  sod  ; 

Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  billowy  gold 

Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways  ; 

A  hundred  aisles  in  their  embraces  fold 

A  hundred  luminous  bays  ; 

And  through  yon  purple  haze 

Vast  mountains  lift  their  plumed  peaks,  cloud  crowned  ; 

And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  ploughman  creeps, 

An  unhewn  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 

In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps  ! 

Ye  Stars,  which,  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 

Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth  ! 

Thou  Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 

Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth  ! 

Ye  Clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  West 

See  nothing  brighter  than  the  humblest  flowers  ! 

And  you,  ye  Winds,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 

Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers  ! 

Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 

And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began, 

No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays, 

Or  given  a  home  to  man. 

But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown  ! 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with  grace, 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom  ; 

The  Poet  of  "  The  Woodlands  "  unto  whom 

Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone, 

And  the  soft  west  wind's  sighs  ; 


250  American  Song. 


But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 

O  Land  wherein  all  powers  are  met 

That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day, 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own  ! 

Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 

The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 

That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined 

To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  mart, 

Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 

That  bear  no  thunders  ;  hushes  hungry  lips 

In  alien  lands  ; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands  ; 

And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 

Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 

Or  feed  the  cottage  smoke  of  English  homes, 

And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind  ! 

In  offices  like  these,  thy  mission  lies, 

My  country  !  and  it  shall  not  end 

As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  Heaven  bend 

In  blue  above  thee  ;  though  thy  foes  be  hard 

And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard 

Thy  hearth-stones  as  a  bulwark  ;  make  thee  great 

In  white  and  bloodless  state  ; 

And  haply,  as  the  years  increase — 

Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 

With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  teach — 

Revive  the  half  dead  dream  of  universal  peace  ! 

As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 

Of  Cornwall,  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 

Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 


Timrod.  251 

Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine 

Above  them,  and  a  mighty  muffled  roar 

Of  winds  and  waters,  yet  toil  calmly  on, 

And  split  the  rocks,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 

Or  carve  a  niche,  or  shape  the  arched  roof  ; 

So  I,  as  calm,  weave  my  woof 

Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 

Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 

Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 

Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hour 

Of  many  gathering  armies.     Still, 

In  that  we  sometimes  hear, 

Upon  the  northern  winds,  the  voice  of  woe 

Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 

The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 

Dry  all  our  tears, 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.     To  thy  will, 

Resigned,  O  Lord  !  we  all  forget 

That  there  is  much  even  victory  must  regret. 

And,  therefore,  not  too  long 

From  the  great  burthen  of  our  country's  wrong 

Delay  our  just  release  ! 

And  if  it  may  be,  save 

These  sacred  fields  of  peace 

From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood  ! 

Oh,  help  us,  Lord  !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood 

Back  on  its  course,  and,  while  our  banners  wing 

Northward,  strike  with  us  !  till  the  Goth  shall  cling 

To  his  own  blasted  altar-stones  ;  and  crave 

Mercy  ;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 

The  lenient  future  of  his  fate 

There,  where  some  rotting  ships  and  crumbling  quays 

Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  Western  seas. 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


Acquaintance  with  the  winning  personality  of 
Hayne  is  not  one  of  the  least  enjoyments  to  be 
gained  from  the  study  of  American  poetry.  Paul 
Hamilton  Hayne  was  born  at  Charleston,  S.  C., 
January  i,  1830.  He  was  graduated  at  the  Univer 
sity  of  South  Carolina,  started  to  practise  law,  and 
then  became  an  editor.  He  has  published  several 
volumes  of  poems  ;  but,  like  Lanier  and  Timrod,  he 
found  a  poet's  life  necessitous.  Hayne  has  written 
war  lyrics,  but  he  excelled  in  domestic  sketches  and 
in  short  pieces  of  quiet  reflection  on  the  subject  of 
natural  landscape,  having  the  feeling  of  contentment 
that  must  precede  repose  in  poetry.  The  two  poems 
following  are  examples  of  the  two  styles.  Hayne 
died  at  Copse  Hill,  Forest  Station,  Ga.,  July  6, 
1886. 


SONNET. 

Here  friend  !  upon  this  lofty  ledge  sit  down  ! 
And  view  the  beauteous  prospect  spread  below, 
Around,  above  us  ;  in  the  noon-day  glow 
How  calm  the  landscape  rests  ! — yon  distant  town, 

252 


Hayne.  253 

Enwreathed  with  clouds  of  foliage  like  a  crown 

Of  rustic  honor  ;  the  soft,  silvery  flow 

Of  the  clear  stream  beyond  it,  and  the  show 

Of  endless  wooded  heights,  arching  the  brown 

Autumnal  fields,  alive  with  billowy  grain ; 

Say  !  hast  thou  ever  gazed  on  aught  more  fair 

In  Europe,  or  the  Orient  ? — what  domain 

(From  India  to  the  sunny  slopes  of  Spain) 

Hath  beauty  wed  to  grandeur  in  the  air, 

Blessed  with  an  ampler  charm,  a  more  benignant  reign  ? 

A  LITTLE  SAINT. 

At  the  calm  matin  hour 

I  see  her  bend  in  prayer, 
As  bends  a  virgin  flower 

Kissed  by  the  summer  air. 

0  !  meek  the  downcast  eyes  ! 

But  the  sweet  lips  wear  a  smile  ; 
How  hard  the  little  angel  tries 
To  be  serious  all  the  while  ! 

1  tell  her  't  is  not  right 

To  be  half  grave,  half  gay, 
Imploring  in  Heaven's  sight 

A  blessing  on  the  day  : 
She  hears  and  looks  devout 

(Although  it  gives  her  pain)  ; 
Still,  when  the  ritual  's  almost  out, 

She  's  sure  to  smile  again  ! 

She  shocks  her  maiden  aunt, 

Who  thinks  it  a  disgrace 
That — do  her  best — she  can't 

Give  her  a  solemn  face  : 


254  American  Song. 


She  '11  scold,  and  rate,  and  fume, 
And  lecture  hour  by  hour, 

Until  she  makes  the  very  room 
Look  passionate  and  sour  ! 

Alack  !  't  is  all  in  vain  ! 

Soon  as  the  sermon's  done, 
My  fairy  blooms  again, 

Like  a  rosebud  in  the  sun  ; 
I  can  not  damp  her  mirth, 

I  will  not  check  her  play, — 
Is  innocent  joy  so  rife  on  earth 

Hers  should  not  have  full  sway  ? 

I  asked  her  yester-night, 

Why,  when  prayer  was  made, 
Her  brow  of  cordial  light 

Scarce  caught  one  serious  shade. 
"Father,"  she  said,  "you  love 

Better  to  meet  me  glad, 
And  so  I  thought  the  Christ  above 

Might  grieve  to  see  me  sad  !  " 


HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON. 


Helen  Hunt  Jackson  was  born  at  Amherst,  Mass., 
October  18,  1831.  Mrs.  Jackson  was  the  author  of 
graceful  stories  and  clever  travel  sketches,  but  she 
also  wrote  verse.  Some  of  her  poetry  is  warm  and 
glowing  in  its  associations,  as  in  The  Riviera ;  some 
of  it  is  philosophical  in  aim,  as  in  Doubt.  Mrs.  Jack 
son  died  at  San  Francisco,  August  12,  1885. 


THE  RIVIERA.1 

O  peerless  shore  of  peerless  sea, 
Ere  mortal  eye  had  gazed  on  thee, 
What  god  was  lover  first  of  thine, 
Drank  deep  of  thy  unvintaged  wine, 
And  lying  on  thy  shining  breast 
Knew  all  thy  passion  and  thy  rest ; 
And  when  thy  love  he  must  resign, 
O  generous  god,  first  love  of  thine, 
Left  such  a  dower  of  wealth  to  thee, 
Thou  peerless  shore  of  peerless  sea  ! 
Thy  balmy  air,  thy  stintless  sun, 

1  The  Riviera,  a  name  given  to  two  portions  of  the  coast  of  the 
Mediterranean  on  either  side  of  Genoa. 

235 


256  American  Song. 

Thy  orange-flowering  never  done, 
Thy  myrtle,  olive,  palm,  and  pine, 
Thy  golden  figs,  thy  ruddy  wine, 
Thy  subtle  and  resistless  spell 
Which  all  men  feel  and  none  can  tell ! 
Oh  peerless  shore  of  peerless  sea  ! 
From  all  the  world  we  turn  to  thee  ; 
No  wonder  deem  we  thee  divine 
Some  god  was  lover  first  of  thine. 

DOUBT. 

They  bade  me  cast  the  thing  away, 
They  pointed  to  my  hands  all  bleeding, 
They  listened  not  to  all  my  pleading  ; 

The  thing  I  meant  I  could  not  say  ; 

I  knew  that  I  should  rue  the  day 

If  once  I  cast  that  thing  away. 

I  grasped  it  firm,  and  bore  the  pain  ; 
The  thorny  husks  I  stripped  and  scattered  ; 
If  I  could  reach  its  heart,  what  mattered 

If  other  men  saw  not  my  gain, 

Or  even  if  I  should  be  slain  ? 

I  knew  the  risks  ;  I  chose  the  pain. 

Oh  had  I  cast  that  thing  away, 
I  had  not  found  what  most  I  cherish, 
A  faith  without  which  I  should  perish, — 
The  faith  which,  like  a  kernel,  lay 
Hid  in  the  husks  which  on  that  day 
My  instinct  would  not  throw  away  ! 


BRET  HARTE. 


Bret  Harte  was  born  at  Albany,  N.  Y.,  August, 
1839.  He  early  began  the  work  of  a  man  of  letters, 
and  has  been  a  voluminous  author.  His  greater 
reputation  and  production  as  a  writer  of  romance 
hide  his  gifts  as  a  poet  ;  but  if  his  noted  and  note 
worthy  poems  be  counted  up,  they  make  no  mean 
showing.  Of  these,  John  Burns  and  How  Are  You, 
Sanitary  \  deal  with  certain  of  the  less  gloomy  as 
pects  of  life  in  the  civil  war.  Plain  Language  from 
Truthful  James  is  a  sportive  squib  at  the  Chinese. 
Her  Letter  is  characterized  by  California  simplicity 
of  manners  and  feeling.  Dickens  in  Camp  is  the 
most  touching  of  Harte's  poems.  The  Angelus, 
however,  is  the  most  poetical,  reviving  the  dreamy 
romance  of  California's  past. 


THE  ANGELUS. 
(Heard  at  the  Mission  Dolores?  1868.) 

Bells  of  the  past,  whose  long  forgotten  music 

Still  fills  the  wide  expanse, 
Tingeing  the  sober  twilight  of  the  present 

With  color  of  romance  ! 

1  Mission  Dolores,  an  old  Spanish  Mission  in  San  Francisco. 
17  257 


258  American  Song. 

I  hear  your  call,  and  see  the  sun  descending 

On  rock  and  wave  and  sand, 
As  down  the  coast  the  Mission  voices  blending, 

Girdle  the  heathen  land. 

Within  the  circle  of  your  incantation 

No  blight  nor  mildew  falls  ; 
Nor  fierce  unrest,  nor  lust,  nor  low  ambition 

Passes  those  airy  walls. 

Borne  on  the  swell  of  your  long  waves  receding, 

I  touch  the  farther  Past, — 
I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 

The  sunset  dream  and  last  ! 

Before  me  rise  the  dome-shaped  Mission  towers, 

The  white  Presidio  ; 
The  swart  commander  in  his  leathern  jerkin, 

The  priest  in  stole  of  snow. 

Once  more  I  see  Portala's  '  cross  uplifting 

Above  the  setting  sun  ; 
And  past  the  headland,  northward,  slowly  drifting 

The  freighted  galleon. 

O  solemn  bells  !  whose  consecrated  masses 

Recall  the  faith  of  old,—- 
O  tinkling  bells  !  that  lulled  with  twilight  music 

The  spiritual  fold. 

Your  voices  break  and  falter  in  the  darkness, — 

Break,  falter,  and  are  still  ; 
And  veiled  and  mystic,  like  the  Host  decending, 

The  sun  sinks  from  the  hill  ! 

1  Portala's   Cross.      See    Harte's  poem  on  the  subject,    Overland 
Monthly,  vol.  3. 


EDWARD   ROWLAND  SILL. 


Edward  Rowland  Sill  was  born  at  Windsor,  Conn., 
April  29,  1841.  He  was  graduated  at  Yale,  and  en 
gaged  in  varied  work,  finally  becoming  professor  of 
English  literature  at  the  University  of  California. 
He  died  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  February  27,  1887.  Sill 
wrote  long  poems,  but  like  many  other  poets  he  is 
at  his  best  in  his  shorter  productions.  When  he  has 
risen  into  thoughtfulness  out  of  a  certain  excessive 
consciousness,  in  his  expression,  of  pain,  difficulty,  or 
other  emotion  that  sometimes  mars  his  technical 
execution,  his  verse  has  an  edge  and  force  that  is  in 
cisive  and  significant. 


THE  FOOL'S  PRAYER. 

The  Royal  feast  was  done  ;  the  King 

Sought  out  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried  :  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  down  and  make  for  us  a  prayer !  " 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before  ; 
259 


260  American  Song. 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool  ; 

His  pleading  voice  arose  :  "  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  ! 

"  No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool  ; 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  ;  but  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me  a  fool  ! 

"  'T  is  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay  , 

'T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 
We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end  ; 

These  hard  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"  The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 
Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung  ? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung  ? 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 

But  for  our  blunders — oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 


Sill.  261 

"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes  ; 

Men  crown  the  knave  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  !  " 

The  room  was  hushed  ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 


JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


No  general  account  of  American  literature  can  be 
complete  without  some  mention  of  Joaquin  Miller. 
Cincinnatus  Hiner  Miller,  was  born  in  the  Wabash 
District,  Ind.,  November  10,  1841.  From  1854  on 
he  lived  in  Oregon  or  California,  being  an  editor 
in  Oregon  and  for  four  years  County  Judge  there. 
Having  visited  Europe  in  1870,  he  published  Songs 
of  the  Sierras.  Other  volumes  have  followed,  among 
them  The  Danites,  which  has  a  merit  that  seems  now 
unusual  for  a  literary  play,  that  of  being  successful 
on  the  stage. 

Almost  from  the  very  outset  of  Miller's  career,  it 
was  evident  that  his  genius  was  larger  than  his 
literary  surroundings.  His  earlier  Californian  verse 
was  the  prelude  to  the  wider,  richer  note  of  Songs  of 
the  Sierras  and  Songs  of  the  Sunlands.  Among  Mil 
ler's  poems  it  is  not  easy,  both  on  account  of  his 
range  and  of  his  prolificness,  to  make  a  choice  for  the 
purpose  of  commentary.  Among  other  productions 
may  well  be  selected,  however,  his  pictures  of  the 
flying  journey  by  rail  across  the  American  continent, 
his  tales  of  pioneer  adventure,  and  his  idyl,  the  scene 
of  which  is  laid  upon  the  Amazon.  Miller's  power 

262 


Miller.  263 

would  not  have  been  shown  but  for  his  longer 
poems,  although  the  more  critical  reader  may  pre 
fer  the  shorter  ones.  Of  the  latter,  In  Yosemite 
Valley  is  onomatopoetic,  keenly  descriptive,  and 
strongly,  though  perhaps  a  little  dimly,  reverential. 
Charity  is  an  original  treatment  of  a  favorite  subject 
in  painting  and  poetry  and  contains  some  fine  single 
lines.  On  the  whole,  Miller's  poems  show  a  genius 
which  even  yet  has  probably  not  fully  developed 
itself. 


AT  BETHLEHEM. 

"  In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 
In  the  wild  waste  there  still  is  a  tree." 

"  Though  the  many  lights  dwindle  to  one  light, 
There  is  help  if  the  heavens  have  one." 

"  Change  lays  not  her  hand  upon  truth." 

With  incense  and  myrrh  and  sweet  spices, 
Frankincense  and  sacredest  oil 
In  ivory,  chased  with  devices 
Cut  quaint  and  in  serpentine  coil  ; 
Heads  bared  and  held  down  to  the  bosom  ; 
Brows  massive  with  wisdom  and  bronzed  ; 
Beards  white  as  the  white  may  in  blossom, 
And  borne  to  the  breast  and  beyond, — 
Came  the  Wise  of  the  East,  bending  lowly 
On  staffs,  with  garments  girt  round 
With  girdles  of  hair,  to  the  Holy 


264  American  Song. 

Child  Christ,  in  their  sandals.     The  sound 
Of  song  and  thanksgiving  ascended — 
Deep  night  !     Yet  some  shepherds  afar 
Heard  a  wail  with  the  worshiping  blended 
And  they  then  knew  the  sign  of  the  star. 


IN  YOSEMITE  VALLEY. 

Sound  !  sound  !    sound  ! 
O  colossal  walls  as  crown'd 
In  one  eternal  thunder  ! 

Sound  !  sound  !    sound  ! 
O  ye  oceans  overhead, 
While  we  walk,  subdued  in  wonder, 
In  the  ferns  and  grasses,  under 
And  beside  the  swift  Merced  ! ' 

Fret  !  fret  !  fret  ! 
Streaming,  sounding  banners,  set 
On  the  giant  granite  castles 
In  the  clouds  and  in  the  snow  ! 
But  the  foe  he  comes  not  yet, — 
We  are  loyal,  valiant  vassals, 
And  we  touch  the  trailing  tassels 
Of  the  banners  far  below. 

Surge  !  surge  !  surge  ! 
From  the  white  Sierra's  verge, 
To  the  very  valley  blossom. 

Surge  !  surge  !  surge  ! 

1  Merced,  a  river  in  California,  rising  in  the  Sierra  Nevadas,  and 
flowing  into  the  San  Joaquin. 


Miller.  265 

Yet  the  song-bird  builds  a  home, 
And  the  mossy  branches  cross  them, 
And  the  tasselled  tree-tops  toss  them, 
In  the  clouds  of  falling  foam. 

Sweep  !  sweep  !  sweep  ! 
O  ye  heaven-born  and  deep, 
In  one  dread,  unbroken  chorus  ! 
We  may  wonder  or  may  weep, — 
We  may  wait  on  God  before  us  ; 
We  may  shout  or  lift  a  hand, — 
We  may  bow  down  or  deplore  us, 
But  may  never  understand. 

Beat  !  beat !   beat  ! 
We  advance,  but  would  retreat 
From  this  restless,  broken  breast 
Of  the  earth  in  a  convulsion. 
We  would  rest,  but  dare  not  rest, 
For  the  angel  of  expulsion 
From  this  Paradise  below 
Waves  us  onward  and — we  go. 

CHARITY. 

Her  hands  were  clasped  downward  and  doubled. 

Her  head  was  held  down  and  depressed, 
Her  bosom,  like  white  billows  troubled, 

Fell  fitful  and  rose  in  unrest. 

Her  robes  were  all  dust  and  disorder'd 

Her  glory  of  hair  and  her  brow, 
Her  face,  that  had  lifted  and  lorded, 

Fell  pallid  and  passionless  now. 


266  American  Song. 

She  heard  not  accusers  that  brought  her 

In  mockery  hurried  to  Him, 
Nor  heeded,  nor  said,  nor  besought  her 

With  eyes  lifted  doubtful  and  dim. 

All  crush'd  and  stone-cast  in  behavior, 
She  stood  as  a  marble  would  stand, 

Then  the  Saviour  bent  down,  and  the  Saviour 
In  silence  wrote  on  in  the  sand. 


What  wrote  He  ?     How  fondly  one  lingers 
And  questions,  what  holy  command 

Fell  down  from  the  beautiful  fingers 
Of  Jesus,  like  gems  in  the  sand. 

O  better  the  Scian  '  uncherished 

Had  died  ere  a  note  or  device 
Of  battle  was  fashioned,  than  perished 

This  only  line  written  by  Christ. 

He  arose  and  he  look'd  on  the  daughter 

Of  Eve,  like  a  delicate  flower, 
And  he  heard  the  revilers  that  brought  her — 

Men  stormy  and  strong  as  a  tower  ; 

And  he  said  :    "  She  has  sinn'd  ;  let  the  blameless 
Come  forward  and  cast  the  first  stone  !  " 

But  they,  they  fled  shamed  and  yet  shameless  ; 
And  she,  she  stood  white  and  alone. 

1  Scian,  Homer,  the  greatest  Greek  poet,  born  perhaps  at  Chios, 
on  the  island  of  Scio. 


Miller.  267 


Who  now  shall  accuse  and  arraign  us  ? 

What  man  shall  condemn  and  disown  ? 
Since  Christ  has  said  only  the  stainless 

Shall  cast  at  his  fellows  a  stone. 

For  what  man  can  bare  us  his  bosom, 
And  touch,  with  his  forefinger  there, 

And  say,  'T  is  as  snow,  as  a  blossom  ? 
Beware  of  the  stainless,  beware  ! 

O  woman,  both  first  to  believe  us  ; 

Yea,  also  born  first  to  forget ; 
Born  first  to  betray  and  deceive  us, 

Yet  first  to  repent  and  regret  ! 

O  first  then  in  all  that  is  human, 
Lo  !  first  where  the  Nazarene  trod, 

O  woman  !  O  beautiful  woman  ! 

Be  then  first  in  the  kingdom  of  God  ! 

PALATINE  HILL. 

i. 

A  wolf-like  stream  without  a  sound 
Steals  by  and  hides  beneath  the  shore, 
Its  awful  secrets  evermore 

Within  its  sullen  bosom  bound. 

ii. 

And  this  was  Rome,  that  shrieked  for  room 
To  stretch  her  limbs  ;  a  hill  of  caves 
For  half  wild  beasts  and  hairy  slaves  ; 

And  gypsies  bent  within  the  tomb. 


268  American  Song. 


in. 


Two  lone  palms  on  the  Palatine, 
Two  rows  of  cypress  black  and  tall 
With  white  roots  set  in  Caesar's  hall, — 

A  garden,  convent,  and  sweet  shrine. 

IV. 

Tall  cedars  on  a  broken  wall, 

That  look  away  toward  Lebanon  !  ' 
And  seem  to  mourn  for  grandeur  gone  : 

A  wolf,  an  owl, — and  that  is  all. 

A  NUBIAN  FACE  ON  THE  NILE. 

One  night  we  touched  the  lily  shore, 
And  then  passed  on,  in  night  indeed, 
Against  the  far  white  waterfall. 
I  saw  no  more,  shall  know  no  more. 
Of  her  for  aye.     And  you  who  read 
This  broken  bit  of  dream  will  smile, 
Half  vexed  that  I  saw  aught  at  all. 
The  waves  struck  strophes  on  the  shore 
And  all  the  sad  song  of  the  oar 
That  long,  long  night  against  the  Nile, 
Was  :    Nevermore  and  nevermore 
This  side  that  shadowy  shore  that  lies 
Below  the  leafy  paradise. 

1  Lebanon,  a  mountain  chain  of  Syria,  having  a  grove  of  venerable 
cedars  at  its  summit. 


CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD. 


Charles  Warren  Stoddard  was  born  at  Rochester, 
N.  Y.,  August  7,  1843.  He  has  been  an  active  news 
paper  correspondent  and  has  taught  at  a  university  in 
Indiana.  His  contributions  to  poetry  are  interest 
ing  and  characteristic.  He  published  at  San  Fran 
cisco  in  1867  his  first  volume  of  verses.  Among  its 
contents  is  the  vivid  and  faithful  description  of 
Mount  Tamalpais,  which  is  the  highest  peak  rising 
from  San  Francisco  Bay. 


TAMALPAIS.1 

How  manifold  thy  beauties  are  ! 
I  do  not  reckon  time  or  space — 
I  worship  thy  exceeding  grace, 
And  hasten  as  a  flying  star 
To  reach  thy  splendor  from  afar. 

The  first  flush  of  thy  morning  face 

Is  dear  to  me  ;  thy  shadowless 

Broad  noon  that  doth  all  sweets  confess  ; 

1  Tamalpais,  a  mountain  in  Marin  County,  California,  of  surpass 
ing  loveliness. 

269 


270  American  Song. 

But  fairer  is  thy  even  fall, 
Which  seems  to  cry  with  airy  call 
Thy  roses  in  the  wilderness, 
Thy  deserts  blithely  blossoming, 
Decoy  me  for  the  love  of  spring. 
With  all  thy  grace  and  glitter  spent, 
Thy  quiet  dusk  so  eloquent ; 
Thy  vail  of  vapors — the  caress 
Of  Zephyrus  right  cool  and  sweet — 
I  cannot  wait  to  love  thee  less — 
I  cling  to  thee  with  full  content, 
And  fall  a  dreaming  at  thy  feet. 

Anon  the  sudden  evening  gun, 
Awakes  me  to  the  sinking  sun 
And  golden  glories  at  the  Gate. 3 
The  full,  strong  tides,  that  slowly  run 
Their  sliding  waters  modulate 
To  indolent  soft  winds  that  wait 
And  lift  a  long  net  newly  spun. 
I  see  the  groves  of  scented  bay, 
And  night  is  in  their  fragrant  May. 
But  tassel  shadows  swing  and  sway, 
Upon  their  glimmering  leaves  of  grass — 
And  there  a  fence  of  rail,  quite  gray, 
With  ribs  of  sunlight  in  the  glass — 
And  here  a  branch  full  well  arrayed 
With  struggling  beams  a  moment  stay'd— 
Like  panting  butterflies  afraid. 

Lo  !     Shadows  slipping  down  the  slope 
And  filling  every  narrow  vale, 

1  The  Gate,  The  Golden  Gate. 


Stoddard.  271 

The  shining  waters  growing  pale — 
The  mellow-burning  star  of  Hope, 
And  in  the  wave  its  silver  trope. 
A  slender  shallop,  feather-frail, 
A  pencil  mast  and  rocking  sail. 
The  glooms  that  gather  at  the  Gate  ; 
The  sombre  lines  against  the  sky, 
While  dizzy  gnats  about  me  fly, 
And  overhead  the  birds  go  by, 
Dropping  a  note  so  crystal  clear, 
The  spirit  cannot  choose  but  hear. 
The  hollow  moon,  and  up  between 
An  oak  with  yard-long  mosses,  green 
In  sunlight  now  as  dull  as  crape  ; 
The  mountain  softened  in  its  shape, 
Its  perfect  symmetry  attained — 
And  swathed  in  velvet  folds,  and  stained 
With  dusky  purple  of  the  grape. 


JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 


John  Vance  Cheney  was  born  at  Groveland,  N. 
Y.,  December  29,  1848.  He  has  been  teacher, 
lawyer,  musician,  and  librarian;  and  has  lived  in 
Massachusetts,  in  New  York  City,  and  in  San  Fran 
cisco.  Mr.  Cheney  has  done  work  as  a  critic,  and  as 
a  poet.  His  volume  of  critical  essays,  The  Golden 
Guess,  taking  high  ground  as  to  the  matter  of  poetry, 
has  been  supplemented  by  later,  separate  papers 
on  other  poets  than  those  treated  in  that  volume.  His 
books  of  poetry  are  named  modestly  Thistle-Drift  and 
Wood-Blooms.  Mr.  Cheney  has  excelled  as  a  poet 
on  several  sides.  His  Old  Farm  Barn  shows  his 
aptitude  at  a  homely  scene.  He  has  given  more 
attention,  however,  thus  far  to  daintier  art,  as  in  The 
Way  of  It.  He  has  also  treated  sombre  subjects, 
usually  in  poems  with  an  undercurrent  of  suggestion 
beneath  the  description,  such  as  OntJic  Ways  of  the 
Night  

THE  WAY  OF  IT. 

The  wind  is  awake,  little  leaves,  little  leaves, 
Heed  not  what  he  says — he  deceives,  he  deceives  : 
Over  and  over 
272 


Cheney.  273 

To  the  lowly  clover 

He  has  lisped  the  same  love  (and  forgotten  it,  too) 
He  will  soon  be  lisping  and  pledging  to  you. 

The  boy  is  abroad,  dainty  maid,  dainty  maid, 
Beware  his  soft  words — I  'm  afraid,  I  'm  afraid  ; 

He  has  said  them  before 

Times  many  a  score, 

Ay,  he  died  for  a  dozen,  ere  his  beard  pricked  through, 
And  the  very  same  death  he  will  die  for  you. 

The  way  of  the  boy  is  the  way  of  the  wind, 
As  light  as  the  leaves  is  dainty  maid-kind  ; 

One  to  deceive 

And  one  to  believe — 
That  is  the  way  of  it,  year  to  year, 
But  I  know  you  will  learn  it  too  late,  my  dear. 

ON  THE  WAYS  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Who  did  it,  Fall  wind,  sighing, 
Who  struck  her  cheek  so  white  ? 

Why  gathers  she  the  wild  waves  flying 
On  the  ways  of  night  ? 

No  longer  let  her  wander, 

Poor  ghost,  that  she  should  freeze  ! 

Tell  her,  help  her  over  yonder 
To  the  tender  trees. 

Th'  unpitying,  bitter  weather  ! 

Ere  moon  and  stars  be  dead, 
Blow  the  yellow  leaves  together, 

Make  the  maid  a  bed. 


JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE. 


James  Herbert  Morse  was  born  at  Hubbardston, 
Mass.,  October  8,  1841.  He  was  graduated  at  Har 
vard,  and  became  a  successful  teacher  in  New  York. 
His  first  volume,  entitled  Summer-Haven  Songs,  was 
published  in  1 886.  He  has  been  a  regular  contributor 
to  the  Atlantic,  the  Critic,  and  other  literary  journals. 
Among  his  single  poems,  Loss,  though  short,  is  a 
good  example  of  the  author's  poetic  quality.  Mazzini 
is  an  appreciative  character  picture.  Morse's  verse 
is  often  characterized  by  the  utmost  poetical  delicacy 
and  susceptibility,  and  he  has  the  rare  gift  of  saying 
much  in  few  words. 


MAZZINI. 

His  soul  wrought  long  and  wore  the  flesh  away, 
But  kept  a  shining  edge,  like  brightest  steel, 
That  by  its  fearless  strokes  made  nations  feel 
What  inward  rottenness  and  swift  decay 

Under  the  foot  of  social  error  lay  ; — 
Ay,  made  them  feel  the  centre-piercing  pain 
274 


Morse.  275 

That  lies  about  the  birth  of  every  gain, 
And  makes  the  day  of  joy  a  wrathful  day. 

Now,  worn,  quite  worn,  the  scabbard  old, 
The  eye  that  lent  its  fire,  the  nerves  so  tense, 
The  ready  hand  so  firm — there  darkly  mould, 
And  waste  into  their  primal  elements. 

And  we,  who  saw  where  these  brave  things  were  laid, 
Ask  vainly  for  that  finely-polished  blade. 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


The  name  of  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  is  recognized 
in  American  literature  as  synonymous  with  the  word 
heart.  O'Reilly  was  born  at  Dowth  Castle,  Meath, 
Ireland,  January  28,  1844.  Committed,  unfortu 
nately,  to  imprisonment  in  Australia,  on  a  political 
charge,  he  escaped  and  came  to  this  country,  making 
his  home  in  Boston,  where  he  has  published  several 
volumes  of  poems.  He  died  at  Hull,  Mass.,  August 
10,  1890. 

O'Reilly  has  many  gifts  in  the  matter  of  poetry — 
keen  analysis,  an  eye  for  landscape,  and  sharp,  vivid 
expression  ;  but,  more  than  anything  else,  stands  out 
his  sure,  sententious  judgment  of  character. 


THREE   GRAVES. 

How  did  he  live,  this  dead  man  here, 
With  the  temple  above  his  grave  ? 
He  lived  as  a  great  one,  from  cradle  to  bier 
He  was  nursed  in  luxury,  trained  in  pride, — 
When  the  wish  was  born,  it  was  gratified  ; 
Without  thanks  he  took,  without  heed  he  gave. 
276 


O'Reilly.  277 

The  common  man  was  to  him  a  clod, 

From  whom  he  was  far  as  a  demigod. 

His  duties  ?     To  see  that  his  rents  were  paid. 

His  pleasures  ?     To  know  that  the  crowd  obeyed. 

His  pulse,  if  you  felt  it,  throbbed  apart, 

With  a  separate  stroke  from  the  people's  heart. 

But  whom  did  he  love,  and  whom  did  he  bless  ? 

Was  the  life  of  him  more  than  a  man's,  or  less  ? 

I  know  not.     He  died,  there  was  none  to  blame, 

And  as  few  to  weep  ;  but  these  marbles  came 

For  the  temple  that  rose  to  preserve  his  name  ! 

How  did  he  live,  that  other  dead  man, 

From  the  graves  apart  and  alone  ? 

As  a  great  one  too  ?    Yes,  this  was  one 

Who  lived  to  labor  and  study  and  plan. 

The  earth's  deep  thought  he  loved  to  reveal ; 

He  banded  the  breast  of  the  land  with  steel ; 

The  thread  of  his  foil  he  never  broke  ; 

He  filled  the  cities  with  wheels  and  smoke, 

And  workers  by  day,  and  workers  by  night, 

For  the  day  was  too  short  for  his  vigor's  flight, 

Too  firm  was  he  to  be  feeling  and  giving  ; 

For  labor,  for  gain,  was  a  life  worth  living. 

He  worshipped  industry,  dreamt  of  her,  sighed  for  her  ; 

Potent  he  grew  by  her,  famous  he  died  for  her. 

They  say  he  improved  the  world  in  his  time, 

That  his  mills  and  mines  were  a  work  sublime. 

When  he  died — the  laborers  rested  and  sighed  ; 

Which  was  it — because  he  had  lived  or  died  ? 

And  how  did  he  live,  that  dead  man  there, 

In  the  country  churchyard  laid  ? 

Oh,  he  ?     He  came  for  the  sweet  field  air  ; 


278  American  Song. 


He  was  tired  of  the  town,  and  he  took  no  pride 
In  its  fashion  or  fame.     He  returned  and  died 
In  the  place  he  loved,  where  a  child  he  played 
With  those  who  have  knelt  by  his  grave  and  prayed. 
He  ruled  no  serfs,  and  he  knew  no  pride, 
He  was  with  the  workers  side  by  side  ; 
He  hated  a  mill,  and  a  mine,  and  a  town, 
With  their  fever  of  misery,  struggle,  renown  ; 
He  could  never  believe  but  a  man  was  made 
For  a  nobler  end  than  the  glory  of  trade  ; 
For  the  youth  he  mourned  with  an  endless  pity 
Who  were  cast  like  snow  on  the  streets  of  the  city. 

He  was  weak,  maybe  ;  but  he  lost  no  friend  ; 

Who  loved  him  once,  loved  on  to  the  end. 

He  mourned  all  selfish  and  vain  endeavor  ; 

But  he  never  injured  a  weak  one — never. 

When  censure  was  passed,  he  was  kindly  dumb  ; 

He  was  never  so  wise  but  a  fault  would  come  ; 

He  was  never  so  old  that  he  failed  to  enjoy 

The  games  and  the  dreams  he  had  loved  when  a  boy  ; 

He  erred  and  was  sorry  ;  but  never  drew 

A  trusting  heart  from  the  pure  and  true. 

When  friends  look  back  from  the  years  to  be, 

God  grant  they  may  say  such  things  of  me. 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


Richard  Watson  Gilder,  editor  of  the  Century  Mag 
azine,  was  born  at  Bordentown,  N.  J.,  February  8, 
1 844.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  did  artillery  service 
in  the  war.  Afterwards  he  became  a  journalist,  then 
editor  of  the  Century  Magazine.  Mr.  Gilder  has 
published  several  volumes  of  verse,  givir.^  evidence 
of  a  bold,  vigorous  personality,  and  of  a  fine  nature, 
receptive  to  the  higher  influences.  "Oh  !  Love  is  Not 
a  Summer  Mood"  is  a  poem  where  his  conceptions 
are  at  their  purest. 


"OH  !  LOVE  IS  NOT  A  SUMMER  MOOD." 


Oh,  Love  is  not  a  summer  mood, 
Nor  flying  phantom  of  the  brain, 
Nor  youthful  fever  of  the  blood, 
Nor  dream,  nor  fate,  nor  circumstance. 
Love  is  not  born  of  blinded  chance, 
Nor  bred  in  simple  ignorance. 
279 


280  American  Song. 


But  love  hath  winter  in  her  blood, 
And  love  is  fruit  of  holy  pain, 
And  perfect  flower  of  maidenhood. 
True  love  is  steadfast  as  the  skies, 
And  once  alight  she  never  flies  ; 
And  love  is  strong,  and  still,  and  wise. 


GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 


George  Parsons  Lathrop  was  born  at  Oahu,  Ha 
waiian  Islands,  August  25,  1851.  He  studied  in  New 
York  and  at  Dresden  from  1867  to  1870.  He  has 
devoted  himself  to  literature,  and  has  published  sev 
eral  volumes  of  poems.  The  selection  below  is  an 
ode  of  broad,  patriotic  spirit,  one  of  his  best  produc 
tions  in  verse. 


STRIKE  HANDS,  YOUNG  MEN  ! 

Strike  hands,  young  men  ! 
We  know  not  when 
Death  or  disaster  comes, 
Mightier  than  battle-drums 
To  summon  us  away. 
Death  bids  us  say  farewell 
To  all  we  love,  nor  stay 
For  tears  ; — and  who  can  tell 
How  soon  misfortune's  hand 
May  smite  us  where  we  stand, 
Dragging  us  down,  aloof, 
Under  the  swift  world's  hoof  ? 
281 


282  American  Song. 


Strike  hands  for  faith,  and  power 

To  gladden  the  passing  hour  ; 

To  wield  the  sword,  or  raise  a  song  ; 

To  press  the  grape  ;  or  crush  out  wrong, 

And  strengthen  right. 

Give  me  the  man  of  sturdy  palm 

And  vigorous  brain  ; 

Hearty,  companionable,  sane, 

'Mid  all  commotions  calm, 

Yet  filled  with  quick,  enthusiastic  fire  ; 

Give  me  the  man 

Whose  impulses  aspire, 

And  all  his  features  seem  to  say,  "  I  can  ! 


Strike  hands,  young  men  ! 

'T  is  yours  to  help  rebuild  the  state, 

And  keep  the  nation  great. 

With  act,  and  speech,  and  pen 

'T  is  yours  to  spread 

The  morning-red 

That  ushers  in  a  grander  day  ; 

To  scatter  prejudice  that  blinds, 

And  hail  fresh  thoughts  in  noble  minds  ; 

To  overthrow  bland  tyrannies 

That  cheat  the  people,  and  with  slow  disease 

Change  the  Republic  to  a  mockery, 

Your  words  can  teach  that  liberty 

Means  more  than  just  to  cry  "  We  're  free," 

While  bending  to  some  new-found  yoke. 

So  shall  each  unjust  band  be  broke, 

Each  toiler  gain  his  meet  reward 

And  life  sound  forth  a  truer  chord. 


Lathrop.  283 

Ah,  if  we  so  have  striven 

And  mutually  the  grasp  have  given 

Of  brotherhood, 

To  work  each  other  and  the  whole  race  good  : 

What  matter  if  the  dream 

Come  only  partly  true, 

And  all  the  things  accomplished  seem 

Feeble  and  few  ? 

At  least,  when  summer's  flame  burns  low 

And  on  our  heads  the  drifting  snow 

Settles  and  stays, 

We  shall  rejoice  that  in  our  earlier  days 

We  boldly  then 

Struck  hands,  young  men  ! 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


James  Whitcomb  Riley  was  born  at  Granfield, 
Ind.,  in  1853.  He  first  essayed  the  trade  of  a  sign 
painter,  then  joined  a  company  of  strolling  players. 
Afterwards  he  became  a  journalist  and  a  lecturer. 

Riley  is  most  generally  known  by  his  verse  in  dia 
lect,  which  forms  the  greater  part  of  his  volumes  of 
poems.  He  has  reached,  however,  no  mean  attain 
ment  in  more  literary  and  purer  English,  which,  if 
he  can  use  with  as  good  effect,  may  be  granted  to  be 
of  itself  a  better  vehicle.  The  Orchard  Lands  of 
Long  Ago  and  Our  Kind  of  a  Man  give  evidence 
that  Riley's  powers  are  equal  to  the  production  of 
something  beyond  merely  local  and  ephemeral 
verse. 

THE  ORCHARD  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO. 

The  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago  ! 
O  drowsy  winds,  awake,  and  blow 
The  snowy  blossoms  back  to  me, 
And  all  the  buds  that  used  to  be  ! 
Blow  back  along  the  grassy  ways 
Of  truant  feet,  and  lift  the  haze 
Of  happy  summer  from  the  trees 
That  trail  their  tresses  in  the  seas 
284 


Riley. 


285 


Of  grain  that  float  and  overflow 
The  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago  ! 

Blow  back  the  melody  that  slips 

In  lazy  laughter  from  the  lips 

That  marvel  much  if  any  kiss, 

Is  sweeter  than  the  apples'  is. 

Blow  back  the  twitter  of  the  birds — 

The  lisp,  the  titter,  and  the  words 

Of  merriment  that  found  the  shine 

Of  summer-time  a  glorious  wine 

That  drenched  the  leaves  that  loved  it  so, 

In  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago  ! 

O  memory  !  alight  and  sing 
Where  rosy  bellied  pippins  cling, 
And  golden  russets  glint  and  gleam, 
As  in  the  old  Arabian  dream, 
The  fruits  of  that  enchanted  tree 
The  glad  Aladdin  robbed  for  me. 
And,  drowsy  winds,  awake  and  fan 
My  blood  as  when  it  overran 
A  heart  ripe  as  the  apples  grow 
In  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago  ! 

OUR  KIND  OF  A  MAN. 


The  kind  of  a  man  for  you  and  me  ! 
He  faces  the  world  unflinchingly 
And  smites  as  long  as  the  wrong  resists, 
With  a  knuckled  faith  and  force  like  fists  ! 
He  lives  the  life  he  is  preaching  of, 


286  American  Song. 


And  loves  where  most  is  the  need  of  love  ; 

His  voice  is  clear  to  the  deaf  man's  ears 

And  his  face  sublime  through  the  blind  man's  tears. 

The  light  shines  out  where  the  clouds  were  dim, 

And  the  widow's  prayer  goes  up  for  him  ; 

The  latch  is  clicked  at  the  hovel  door, 

And  the  sick  man  sees  the  sun  once  more, 

And  out  o'er  the  barren  fields  he  sees 

Springing  blossoms  and  waving  trees, 

Feeling,  as  only  the  dying  may, 

That  God's  own  servant  has  come  that  way, 

Smoothing  the  path  as  it  still  winds  on 

Through  the  golden  gate  where  the  loved  have  gone. 

n. 

The  kind  of  a  man  for  you  and  me  ! 

However  little  of  work  we  do 

He  credits  full,  and  abides  in  trust 

That  time  will  teach  us  how  more  is  just. 

He  walks  abroad,  and  he  meets  all  kinds 

Of  querulous  and  uneasy  minds, 

And,  sympathizing,  he  shares  the  pain 

Of  the  doubts  that  rack  us,  heart  and  brain  ; 

And,  knowing  this,  as  we  grasp  his  hand, 

We  are  surely  coming  to  understand  ! 

He  looks  on  sin  with  pitying  eyes — 

E'en  as  the  Lord,  since  Paradise, — 

Else,  should  we  read,  Though  our  sins  should  glow 

As  scarlet,  they  shall  be  white  as  snow  ? — 

And  feeling  still  with  a  grief  half  glad, 

That  the  bad  are  as  good  as  the  good  are  bad, 

He  strikes  out  straight  for  the  Right — and  he 

Is  the  kind  of  a  man  for  you  and  me  ! 


EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS. 


Edith  Matilda  Thomas  was  born  at  Chatham, 
Ohio,  in  1854.  She  was  educated  at  a  normal  school, 
and  has  written  poems  which  have  gained  popularity. 
Miss  Thomas's  chief  merit  in  verse  is  her  style,  which 
includes  classical  spirit,  varied  emotion,  and  fresh  use 
of  words.  Her  characteristic  fault  is  that  she  does 
not  usually  subordinate  clearly  the  numerous  ideas 
of  a  poem  to  one  dominant  connection.  In  such  a 
poem,  however,  as  the  Sea-Bird  and  Land-Bird  her 
art  attains  harmony  of  purpose. 


SEA-BIRD  AND  LAND-BIRD. 

A  land-bird  would  follow  a  sea-bird's  flight, 
Over  the  surges  and  out  of  sight, 
It  joyed  to  lave 
In  the  bead  of  the  wave, 

And  watched  the  great  sky  in  its  mirror  glassed  ; 
And  all  was  well 
Till,  with  measureless  swell, 
Under  the  gale  rose  the  waters  vast, 
287 


288  American  Song. 

Then,  baffled  and  maimed, 

With  spirit  tamed, 

The  bird  'mid  the  drift  on  the  shore  was  cast. 


Thou  wast  that  sea-bird  strong  and  light 

(Shall  a  land-bird  follow  a  sea-bird's  flight  ? ) — 

Wast  fledged  on  high, 

Close  under  the  sky  ; 

The  wandering  cloud  would  sometimes  bend 

With  billowy  breast 

Above  thy  nest, 

And  in  pity  moist  her  substance  spend  ; 

No  mate  thou  couldst  find 

Like  the  fierce  North  Wind, 

And  the  tempest  that  tried  thee  most  was  thy  friend  ! 

I  was  that  land-bird,  frail  and  slight 

(Shall  a  sea-bird  stay  for  a  land-bird's  flight  ? )  ; 

Low  on  the  earth 

I  had  my  birth, 

In  a  sunny  field  where  the  days  were  long  ; 

There  as  I  lay 

I  heard  the  spray 

Of  the  grass  in  June  growing  deep  and  strong  ; 

Fast  the  days  flew, 

And  I  followed,  too  ; 

And  saluted  the  sun  with  my  slender  song  ! 

Hear  me,  thou  sea-bird,  matchless  in  flight, 

Shaping  thy  course  o'er  the  surges  white  ! 

In  the  making  of  things, 

Strength  fell  to  thy  wings, 

So  that  thou  shouldst  not  falter  nor  tire 


Thomas.  289 

When  beating  abroad  ; 

The  breath  of  a  god 

Was  breathed  through  thy  form, — and  enduring  fire. 

To  me,  out  of  heaven, 

No  fire  was  given, 

Nor  strength,  but  only  the  rover's  desire. 

Shall  a  land-bird  follow  a  sea-bird's  flight, 

Over  the  surges  and  out  of  sight? 

The  Maker  of  things 

Has  touched  my  wings 

And  taken  from  me  my  blind  unrest  ! 

Now  am  I  blent 

With  the  fields  content, 

In  the  grassy  deep  where  I  make  my  nest. — 

Say  can'st  thou  hear, 

My  carol  clear, — 

Thou,  by  the  soundful  sea  oppressed  ? 


GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY. 


George  Edward  Woodberry  was  born  at  Beverly, 
Mass.,  May  12, 1855.  He  was  graduated  at  Harvard, 
and  became  professor  first  at  the  University  of  Ne 
braska,  later  at  Columbia  College  ;  he  has  also  been 
connected  with  the  New  York  Nation.  Mr.  Wood- 
berry  has  published  a  history  of  wood-engraving,  and 
a  life  of  Poe.  Studies  in  Life  and  Letters  is  a  volume 
characterized,  among  American  essays  of  the  day,  not 
only  by  a  true  "  interest  in  ideal  living  "  as  fed  from 
contemporary  sources,  but  by  the  presence  of  not  a 
few  elements,  firmly  grasped,  of  spiritual  wisdom. 
Those  in  America  who  are  idealists  either  in  hope  or 
fact  may  find  these  essays  useful  as  a  guide  to  the 
appreciation  and  better  understanding  of  its  author's 
volume  of  poetry  entitled  The  North  Shore  Watch, 
and  Other  Poems.  Woodberry  is  a  poet  of  patriotism 
in  such  verse  as  Our  First  Century  ;  while  the  poems 
At  Gibraltar  and  To  Leo  XI I L  show  that  he  possesses, 
further,  the  steadfast  moral  quality  of  the  English 
race,  with  its  warlike  Scandinavian  feeling. 


290 


Woodberry.  291 

OUR  FIRST  CENTURY. 

It  cannot  be  that  men  who  are  the  seed 

Of  Washington  should  miss  fame's  true  applause  ; 

Franklin  did  plan  us  ;  Marshall  gave  us  laws  ; 

And  slow  the  broad  scroll  grew  a  people's  creed, — 

One  land  and  free  !  then  at  our  dangerous  need 

Time's  challenge  coming,  Lincoln  gave  it  pause, 

Upheld  the  ample  pillars  of  the  cause, 

And  dying  left  them  whole — the  crowning  deed. 

Such  was  the  fathering  race  that  made  all  fast, 

Who  founded  us,  and  spread  from  sea  to  sea 

A  thousand  leagues  the  zone  of  liberty, 

And  built  for  man  this  refuge  from  his  past, 

Unkinged,  unchurched,  unsoldiered,  shamed  were  we, 

Failing  the  stature  that  such  sires  forecast. 

TO  LEO  XIII. 

The  German  tyrant  plays  thee  for  his  game  ; 
Italy  curbs  thee  ;  France  gives  little  rest ; 
And  o'er  the  broad  sea  dost  thou  think  to  tame 
God's  young  plantation  in  the  virgin  West  ? 
Three  kingdoms  did  He  sift  to  find  the  seed, 
And  sowed  ;  then  open  threw  the  sea's  wide  door  ; 
And  millions  came,  used  but  to  starve  and  bleed, 
And  built  the  great  republic  of  the  poor. 

Remember  Dover  Strait  that  shore  from  thee 
Whole  empires,  hidden  in  the  banked-up  clouds 
Of  England's  greatness  !  Of  all  lands  are  we, 
But  chiefly  Northmen  ;  still  their  might  enshrouds 
The  fates  ;  dream  not  their  children  of  this  sod 
Cease  to  be  freemen  when  they  bow  to  God. 


HELEN  GRAY  CONE. 


Helen  Gray  Cone  was  born  at  New  York,  March 
8,  1859.  She  was  graduated  from  the  New  York 
Normal  College,  and  became  teacher  there.  Miss 
Cone  has  published  two  volumes  of  verse.  In  some 
of  her  poems  there  are  remarkable  gleams  of  poetic 
insight,  but  her  best  attainment  has  been  in  fancy 
rather  than  in  imagination.  Among  single  poems, 
The  Spring  Beauties  is  especially  distinctive  in  its 
blending  of  close  observation  and  pleasant  moraliz 
ing. 


THE  SPRING   BEAUTIES. 

The   Puritan   Spring   Beauties   stood   freshly   clad    for 

church  ; 
A  thrush,  white-breasted,  o'er  them  sat  singing  on  his 

perch. 
"  Happy  be  !   for  fair  are  ye  ! "  the  gentle  singer  told 

them, 
But  presently  a  buff-coat  Bee  came  booming  up  to  scold 

them. 

292 


Cone.  293 

"  Vanity,  oh  vanity  ! 
Young  maids  beware  of  vanity  !  " 
Grumbled  out  the  buff-coat  Bee, 
Half  parson-like,  half  soldierly. 

The  sweet-faced  maidens  trembled,  with  pretty,  pinky 

blushes, 

Convinced  that  it  was  wicked  to  listen  to  the  thrushes  ; 
And  when,  that  shady  afternoon,  I  chanced  that  way  to 

pass, 
They  hung  their  little  bonnets  down  and  looked  into  the 

grass. 

All  because  the  buff-coat  Bee 

Lectured  them  so  solemnly  : — 
"  Vanity,  oh,  vanity  ! 

Young  maids,  beware  of  vanity  !  " 


AN  INVOCATION  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

O  brotherhood,  with  bay-crowned  brows  undaunted, 
Who  passed  serene  along  our  crowded  ways, 

Speak  with  us  still  !  For  we,  like  Saul,  are  haunted  : 
Harp  sullen  spirits  from  these  later  days  ! 

Whate'er  high  hope  ye  had  for  man,  your  brother, 
Breathe  it,  nor  leave  him  like  a  prisoned  slave 

To  stare  through  bars  upon  a  sight  no  other 
Than  clouded  skies  that  lighten  on  a  grave. 

In  these  still  alcoves  give  us  gentle  meeting, 
From  dusky  shelves  kind  arms  about  us  fold, 

Till  the  New  Age  shall  feel  her  chilled  heart  beating 
Restfully  on  the  warm  heart  of  the  Old. 


294 


A 


merican 


Song. 


Till  we  shall  hear  your  voices  mild  and  winning 
Steal  through  our  doubt  and  discord  as  outswells 

At  fiercest  noon,  above  a  city's  dinning, 
The  chiming  music  of  cathedral  bells  ! 

Music  that  lifts  the  thought  from  trodden  places 
And  coarse  confusions  that  around  us  lie, 

Up  to  the  calm  of  high  cloud-silvered  spaces 

Where  the  tall  spire  points  through  the  soundless  sky. 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


Clinton  Scollard  was  born  at  Clinton,  N.  Y.,  Sep 
tember  1 8,  1860.  He  was  graduated  at  Hamilton 
College,  and  became  professor  there.  Mr.  Scollard 
has  published  several  volumes  of  verse.  He  has 
taken  advantage  of  foreign  travel  to  use  uncommon 
as  well  as  familiar  themes.  His  poetry  is  graceful, 
and  in  The  Hunter  and  The  Angler,  has  also  the 
fresh  atmosphere  and  spirit  of  out-door  nature. 


THE  HUNTER. 

Through  dewy  glades  ere  morn  is  high, 
When  fleecy  cloud-ships  sail  the  sky, 

With  buoyant  step  and  gun  a-shoulder, 
And  song  on  lip  he  wanders  by. 

He  feels  the  cool  air  fan  his  brow, 

He  scents  the  spice  of  pine-tree  bough, 

And  lists  from  moss-encrusted  boulder, 
The  thrush  repeat  her  matin  vow. 

Afar  he  hears  the  ringing  horn, 
And,  from  the  rustling  fields  of  corn, 

The  harvest  music  welling  over, 
Greeting  the  autumn  day,  new-born. 

295 


296  American  Song. 

In  pendant  purple  globes  he  sees 
The  wild  grapes  hang  amid  the  trees, 

And,  from  the  last  red  buds  of  clover, 
The  darting  flight  of  golden  bees. 

He  marks  the  fiery  crimson  gleam 
On  wide  primeval  woods  that  seem 

Like  armored  hosts  with  banners  flying, 
That  march  where  weary  warriors  dream. 

Before  him  long-eared  rabbits  pass 

Like  shadows,  through  the  aisles  of  grass  ; 

From  copses,  wren  to  wren  replying, 
Utter  for  him  a  morning  mass. 

He  does  not  heed  the  partridge's  drum, 
The  squirrel's  chattering,  nor  the  hum 

Of  myriad  noises  that,  incessant, 
Down  dusky  forest  arches  come. 

He  crosses  quiet  nooks  of  shade, 
With  flickering  sunshine  interlaid, 

Where,  when  outshines  the  silvery  crescent, 
Flit  by  the  pixies,  half  afraid. 

Thus  on  and  on  he  blithely  speeds, 
Through  briery  brake  and  tangled  reeds, 
Thinking  of  Robin  '  end  his  bowmen, 
And  all  the  archer's  daring  deeds  ; 

Till  'neath  a  slope  by  vines  o'ergrown, 
Where,  in  the  ages  that  have  flown, 

The  redmen  slew  their  swarthy  foemen, 
He  stands  beside  a  pool,  alone. 

^Robin  Hood,  a  famous  English  outlaw  and  huntsman,  supposed  to 
have  lived  in  the  reign  of  Richard  I. 


Scollard.  297 


Deep  in  a  thicket,  dense  and  dim, 
That  skirts  the  rushy  water's  rim, 

He  crouches  low  and  keenly  listens 
For  sound  of  hoof  or  stir  of  limb. 

At  length  he  sees  within  the  sheen 
Of  trembling  leafage,  darkly  green, 
A  lustrous  eye  that  softly  glistens, 
And  then  a  head  of  royal  mien. 

The  startled  hillsides  sharply  ring, 
And  answering  echoes  backward  fling, 

While  prone  upon  the  earth  before  him, 
A  proud  red  deer  lies  quivering. 

He  swings  his  prize  to  shoulders  strong, 
Then  homeward  swiftly  strides  along, 

The  great  blue  skies  a-smiling  o'er  him, 
And  all  around  the  birds  in  song. 

Behind  the  woods  the  sun  creeps  down 
And  leaves  thereon  a  crimson  crown  ; 

From  sapphire  portals,  pale  and  tender, 
Venus  o'erlooks  the  meadows  brown. 

And  now  that  shadows  hide  the  lane 
Where  rolled  the  orchard-laden  wain, 

His  weary  feet  upon  the  fender, 
He  slays  the  red  deer  o'er  again  ! 

THE  ANGLER. 

He  rises  ere  the  dews  at  dawn 
Like  diamonds  gleam  upon  the  lawn  ; 
And  down  the  fragrant  pasture  goes 
Through  buttercups  and  wild  primrose  ; 


298  American  Song. 


The  bobolinks  amid  the  grass 
Laugh  merrily  to  see  him  pass, 
O  foolish  gossips  in  the  mist, 
He  speeds  to  keep  no  morning  tryst  ! 

With  fixed  intent,  he  does  not  heed 
The  mottled  moth,  a  fairy  steed, 
That  seeks  the  wood  till  night  enfold 
The  day,  and  steal  its  wealth  of  gold. 
He  gains  the  grove  where  woodbines  twine 
Around  the  boles  of  elm  and  pine 
Nor  pauses  till  he  stands  amid 
The  reeds  where  Pan  the  piper  hid. 

What  joy  is  his  to  see  the  gleam 
Of  silvery  fin  within  the  stream, 
To  hold  in  leash  each  eager  sense 
With  silence  breathless  and  intense, 
To  mark  an  arrowy  flash,  and  feel 
The  sudden  pulsing  of  the  reel, 
As  with  electric  current  fine 
He  sends  his  nerve  along  the  line. 

Companioned  by  a  keen  desire 
His  sturdy  patience  does  not  tire  ; 
Through  morning  hours  in  sun  or  rain, 
He  smiles  content  with  meagre  gain  ; 
Breathing  the  perfect  calm  that  broods, 
In  nature's  secret  solitudes, 
Gleaning  from  river,  wood,  and  sky, 
A  deep  and  broad  philosophy. 


MINNIE  GILMORE. 


Minnie  Gilmore  was  born  at  Boston,  Mass.,  18 — . 
She  is  the  daughter  of  P.  S.  Gilmore,  the  well  known 
musician.  The  graceful  poem  below,  which  was 
written  at  New  York,  is  taken  from  Miss  Gilmore's 
volume  of  poems,  Pipes  from  the  Prairies.  Miss 
Gilmore  is  better  known  as  a  novelist  than  as  a  poet, 
by  her  stories,  A  Son  of  Esau  and  The  Woman  That 
Stood  Bettveen.  The  latter  is  a  tale  of  the  life  of  an 
anarchist.  The  former  deals  with  society  in  a  west 
ern  State.  Miss  Gilmore  is  one  of  the  few  who  have 
succeeded  in  the  novel  in  bringing  out  the  difference 
between  Eastern  and  Western  ethics  and  manners. 
In  verse,  her  style  has  charm  ;  in  the  novel,  charm 
and  power. 


THE  DESERTED  CHAPEL. 

A  chapel  by  the  wayside 
Silent  and  dark  and  chill ; 
Out  of  the  gloom,  and  the  solemn  hush, 
The  plaintive  notes  of  a  lonely  thrush, 
And  wail  of  wHppoorwill. 
299 


300  American  Song. 

White  on  the  untrod  threshold, 

Daisies  in  virgin  file  ; 
While  stately  grasses  troop  up  in  green, 
And  scaling  the  steps  that  intervene, 

Fade  in  the  dusky  aisle. 

Silent  within  the  belfry, 
A  bell  with  shattered  tongue  ; 
And  swallows  twit  on  the  chancel  eaves 
Where  wild  vines  clamber  and  twine  their  leaves 
The  warm  brown  nests  among. 

O  chapel  by  the  wayside, 

And  tales  thy  ruins  tell  ! 
Out  of  thy  shadows  pale  phantoms  dart — 
Out  of  thy  silence  strange  echoes  start, 

O  mute  old  iron  bell  ! 

Again  the  weary  pilgrims 
Thine  aisles  tread  as  of  yore  ; 
Again  the  toll,  and  the  measured  tread 
Of  patriot  mourners  who  bear  their  dead 
Within  thy  shadowed  door. 

Again  the  pealing  organ, 

The  roses  down  thy  nave  ; 
The  laughing  bells  and  the  happy  bride, 
Who  saw  not  lying  the  year  beside 

This  tiny,  moss-grown  grave. 


DORA  GOODALE. 


Dora  Read  Goodale  was  born  at  Mount  Washing 
ton,  Mass.,  October  29,  1866.  She  and  her  elder  sis 
ter,  Elaine,  wrote  poetry  young,  and  in  1 878  published 
their  first  volume,  Apple  Blossoms,  which  was  soon 
followed  by  other  collections,  entitled  In  Berkshire 
with  the  Wild  Flowers,  and  Verses  from  Sky  Farm. 
The  poems  are  like  their  titles  :  fresh,  naive,  full  of 
innocent  happiness,  and  close  observation  of  the  sur 
rounding  nature.  As  was  remarked  by  the  reviewers, 
the  poems  of  Dora  and  her  sister  were  the  produc 
tions  of  children  who  held  the  poet's  pen. 


A-BERRYING. 

Down  in  the  meadow's  border-tangle, 

Heavy  and  still  in  the  parching  heat, 
A  little  above  the  rugged  angle 

Where  the  shadowy  woods  converge  and  meet, 
Is  a  wall,  with  blackberry  vines  o'errun, 

Scarlet  leaves,  as  the  woodbine  is, 
Buttercups,  all  ablaze  in  the  sun, 

Gypsy-daisies  and  clematis  ! 
301 


502  American  Song. 

Here,  as  the  restless  winds  pass  over, 

The  cat-bird  swings  in  her  thorny  nest, 
As  the  berry-girls  by  chance  discover 

A  callow  stranger  beside  the  rest  ! 
Swallows,  a-tilt  on  the  lichened  rail, 

Wait  a  little  until  you  pass, 
And  the  snake  slips  by  and  leaves  a  trail, 

Like  to  the  wind  in  the  meadow  grass. 

Into  the  sweet  September  weather, 

Under  the  searching  harvest  fires, 
Lads  and  lassies  go  out  together 

Eager  to  strip  the  bending  briers  ; 
Boys  of  the  mountains,  one  by  one, 

Girls  of  the  uplands,  wild  and  sweet, 
Gypsy-brown  in  the  ardent  sun, 

Scarlet-cheeked  in  the  Autumn  heat. 

Breaking  in  through  the  thorny  hedges, 

Singing  and  whistling,  blithe  and  gay, 
Wandering  down  to  the  woodland  edges, 

Plucking  asters  along  the  way  ; 
Following  back  thro'  the  pasture  bars, 

With  the  heavy  baskets,  two  by  two, 
Under  the  lovely,  distant  stars, 

Into  the  darkness,  into  the  dew. 


THE   END. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Aboard  at  a  ship's  helm,  115 
A  chapel  by  the  wayside,  299 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !  the  spirit  flown  forever  !  52 
A  land-bird  would  follow  a  sea-bird's  flight,  287 
Amid  these  days  of  order,  ease,  prosperity,  113 
A  song,  a  poem  of  itself — the  word  itself  a  dirge,  114 
At  the  calm  matin  hour,  253 
A  wolf-like  stream  without  a  sound,  267 
Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  !   213 
Back  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field,  202 
Bells  of  the  past,  whose  long-forgotten  music,  257 
"  Corporal  Green  !  "  the  Orderly  cried  ;  208 
Delicate  cluster  !  flag  of  teeming  life  !  113 
Did  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me  ?  in 
Down  in  the  meadow's  border-tangle,  301 
Fair  flower  that  dost  so  comely  grow,  139 
Fair  river  !  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow,  51 
Furl  that  Banner,  for  't  is  weary,  210 
Give  all  to  love  ;   44 

Here,  friend  !  upon  this  lofty  ledge  sit  down  !  252 
Her  hands  were  clasped  downward  and  doubled,  265 
He  rises  ere  the  dews  at  dawn,  297 
His  soul  wrought  long  and  wore  the  flesh  away,  274 

303 


304      Index  of  First  Lines. 

I  low  did  he  live,  this  dead  man  here,  276 

How  manifold  thy  beauties  are  !  269 

I  met  the  wild-eyed  Genius  of  our  land,  168 

In  their  ragged  regimentals,  I  So 

In  the  old  days  of  awe  and  keen-eyed  wonder,  82 

I  saw  him  once  before,  98 

I  saw  old  General  at  bay,  112 

I  saw  thee  once — once  only — years  ago,  53 

I  stood  within  the  little  cove,  244 

It  cannot  be  that  men  who  are  the  seed,  291 

It  was  three  slim  does  and  a  ten-lined  buck  in  the  bracken  lay  ;  126 

Life  is  a  count  of  losses,  163 

Little  dancing  harlequin  !  238 

Look  down  into  my  heart,  231 

Lo,  the  unbounded  sea,  no 

Men  !  if  manhood  still  ye  claim,  33 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  :   188 

Mother,  if  I  were  a  flower,  236 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach,  176 

Not  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must,  233 

Not  youth  pertains  to  me,  112 

O  brotherhood,  with  bay-crowned  brows  undaunted,  293 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town,  73 

Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  !  17 

Oh,  Love  is  not  a  summer  mood,  279 

"  Oh  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true,  228 

One  day,  along  the  electric  wire,  35 

One  night  we  touched  the  lily  shore,  268 

On  Zurich's  spires,  with  rosy  light,  177 

O  peerless  shore  of  peerless  sea,  255 

Our  bugles  sound  gayly.     To  horse  and  away  !  195 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham,  132 

Rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  190 


Index  of  First  Lines.       305 

Recorders  ages  hence,  in 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him,  225 

She  comes — the  spirit  of  the  dance  !  166 

Shines  the  last  age,  the  next  with  hope  is  seen,  46 

Simple  and  fresh  and  fair  from  winter's  close  emerging,  109 

Sometimes  with  one  I  love  I  fill  myself  with  rage  for  fear  I  effuse 

unreturn'd  love,  no 
Sound  !  sound  !  sound  !  264 
Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you  !  192 
"  Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest  !  67 
Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs,  n 
Strike  hands,  young  men  !  281 
The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore,  198 
The  German  tyrant  plays  thee  for  his  game  ;  291 
The  grass  is  greener  where  she  sleeps,  242 
The  happy  bells  shall  ring,  240 
The  kind  of  a  man  for  you  and  me  !  285 
The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last,  89 
The  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago  !  284 

The  Puritan  Spring  Beauties  stood  freshly  clad  for  church  ;  292 
The  rain  is  playing  its  soft,  pleasant  tune,  158 
There  is  a  sighing  in  the  wood,  58 
There  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town,  100 
The  robin  laughed  in  the  orange-tree  :   134 
The  Royal  feast  was  done  ;  the  King,  259 
The  sun  set,  but  set  not  his  hope  ;   45 
The  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes,  13 
The  wind  is  awake,  little  leaves,  little  leaves,  272 
The  wind  is  roistering  out  of  doors,  88 
They  bade  me  cast  the  thing  away,  256 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of  good  old  times,  95 
This  little  rill  that,  from  the  springs,  20 
Through  dewy  glades  ere  morn  is  high,  295 


3o6      Index  of  First  Lines. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech,  219 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds,  7 

Traveller  !  on  thy  journey  toiling,  29 

Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of  gloom,  88 

Voices  from  the  mountain  speak  ;  18 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand  more,  204 

We  were  not  many — we  who  stood,  161 

"  What  care  I,  what  cares  he,  183 

What  think  you  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  record  ?  no 

"  Where  is  a  singer  to  cheer  me  ?  "  221 

While  I  recline,  246 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew,  12 

Who  did  it,  Fall  wind,  sighing,  273 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  dauntless  Varuna  ?  206 

"  Whose  work  is  this  ?  "  Murillo  said,  171 

Wild  Rose  of  Alloway  !  my  thanks  ;  143 

With  incense  and  myrrh  and  sweet  spices,  263 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  !  155 


INDEX. 


A-Berrying,  301 

Aboard  at  a  Ship's  Helm,  115 

A  Dancing  Girl,  166 

Agassiz,  92 

A  Harebell,  236 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  217,  240 

Allen,  Elizabeth  Akers,  242 

A  Little  Saint,  253 

An  Invocation  in  a  Library,  293 

Antrobus,  John,  183 

A  Nubian  Face  on  the  Nile,  268 

Arnold,  Matthew,  42 

At  Bethlehem,  263 

At  Swords'  Points,  187 

Auf  Wiedersehen,  89 

A  Winter  Piece,  13 

B 

Battle-Hymn  of   the    Republic, 

188 

Boker,  George  Henry,  206 
Bryant,  William  Cullen,  2,  3-8, 

24,  50,  57,  62,  135-137 
Burns,  Robert,  24,  143 

C 

Cabot,  J.  E.,  43 
Campbell,  143 


Carmen  Bellicosum,  180 

Gary,  Alice,  228 

Gary,  Phoebe,  228 

Cavalry  Song,  195 

Character,  45 

Charity,  265 

Cheney,  John  Vance,  272 

Clarke,  James  Freeman,  58 

Classics,  I 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  4,  141 

Columbine,  238 

Cone,  Helen  Gray,  292 

Contemporaries,  215 

Cooke,  Rose  Terry,  238 

Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  135 

Cranch,  Christopher  Pearse,  219 

D 

Dana,  Richard  Henry,  136,  141 
Dante,  76,  88,  225 
Delicate  Cluster,   113 
Dixie,  192 
Doubt,  256 
Drake,    Joseph    Rodman,    136, 

143,  150 
Dryden,  John,  124 

E 

Emerson,   Ralph  Waldo,  i,  39- 
43,  57,  58,  104 


307 


Index. 


Every  Year,  163 

F 

Fields,  James  Thomas,  190 
Forerunners,  135 
Freneau,  Philip,  135,  139 

G 

Gibbons,  James  Sloan,  204 
Gilder,  Richard  Watson,  279 
Gill,  51 

Gilmore,  Minnie,  299 
Give  all  to  Love,  44 
Godwin,  Parke,  Life  of  Bryant, 

5,8 

Goethe,  Wolfgang  von,  117 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  62 
Goodale,  Dora,  301 
Goodale,  Elaine,  301 
Gray,  Thomas,  Odes  of,  62 

H 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene,  136,  143 
Harte,  Francis  Bret,  215,  257 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  I,  50, 

5i,  57,  79 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton,  217,  252 
Heri,  Hodie,  Cras,  46 
Higginson,  Thomas  Wentworth, 

231 

Hoffmann,  Charles  Fenno,  161 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  43, 

91-94,  105,  187,  213 
Homer,  266 
Howe,  Julia  Ward,  188 
Hunt,  Leigh,  76 


Idleness,  158 
Ingram,  51 


Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to 

a  Wood,    ii 

In  Yosemite  Valley,  264 
Irving,  Washington,  2,  63,  135 
I  Saw  Old  General  at  Bay,  112 
Italy,  i 8 

J 

Jackson,  Helen  Hunt,  255 
Johnson,  Samuel,  62 

L 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  158 
Lanier,    Sidney,     122-125,    217, 

252 

Larcom,  Lucy,  236 
Lathrop,  George  Parsons,  281 
Longfellow,  Henry  WTads\vorth, 

3,   50,   58,  62-7,  77,  79,   105, 

124,  137 

Longfellow,  Rev.  Samuel,  62,  67 
Lowell,  Rev.  Dr.  Charles,  77 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  3,  5,  51, 

77-82,  117,  124,  136,  137,  190, 

215 

M 

Manrique,  63 

Mazzini,  274 

McMaster,  Guy  Humphreys,  180 

Miller,  Cincinnatus  Hiner,  215, 

217,  262 

Milton,  John,  41,  62,  124,  248 
Morris,  George  Pope,  155 
Morse,  James  Herbert,  274 
Murillo  and  His  Slave,  171 
My  Lost  Youth,  73 
My  Maryland,  197 

N 

Nature,  60 
Neal,  135 


Index. 


309 


Norton,  Charles  Eliot,  82,  88 
Not  Youth  Pertains  to  Me,  112 

O 

Ode,  82 

O  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids,  17 
Of  Thine  Own  Country  Sing,  168 
Oh,  Love  is  not  a  Summer 

Mood,  279 
Old  Ironsides,  213 
On  a  Bust  of  Dante,  225 
On  Leaving  California,  120 
On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl,  95 
On  the  Ways  of  the  Night,  273 
O'Reilly,  John  Boyle,  215,  217, 

276 

Osgood,  Frances  Sargent,  166 
Our  Kind  of  a  Man,  285 
Our  First  Century,  291 


Parsons,  Thomas  William,  225 
Percival,  James  Gates,  136,  153 
Pike,  Albert,  163,  192 
Plutarch,  62 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  3,  47-51, 104, 

137 
Pope,  Alexander,  41,  124 

R 

Randall,  James  Ryder,  197 
Rantoul,  35 

Raymond,  Henry  J.,  202 
Raymond,     Rossiter    Worthing- 

ton,  195 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan,  177 
Recorders  Ages  Hence,  ill 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb,  215,  284 
Roll-Call,  208 
Ryan,  Abram  Joseph,  210 


Saxe,  John  Godfrey,  171 

Scollard,  Clinton,  295 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  24 

Sea-Bird  and  Land-Bird,  287 

Shakespeare,  William,  62 

Shelley,  94 

Shepherd,    Nathaniel     Graham, 

208 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  36 
Sill,  Edward  Rowland,  259 
Sometimes  with  One  I  Love,  no 
Song  of  the  Alpine  Guide,  177 
Song  of  the  Chattahoochee,  132 
Sonnet,  252 
Sprague,  135 
Stanzas,  219 
Stedman,      Edmund     Clarence, 

50,  51,  180,  201,  233 
Stoddard,  Charles  \Varren,  269 
Stoddard,  Richard  Henry,  233 
Story,  \Villiam  Wetmore,  221 
Strike  Hands,  Young  Men,  281 

T 

Tamalpais,  269 
Tampa  Robins,  134 
Taylor,    Bayard,   116-118,    217, 

233 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  2,  94,  124 

Thanatopsis,  8 

Thaxter,  Celia  Laighton,  244 

The  American  Flag,  150 

The  Angelus,  257 

The  Angler,  297 

The  Battle-Hymn  of  the  Repub 
lic,  188 

The  Conquered  Banner,  210 

The  Cotton  Boll,  246 

The  Country  Life,  233 


3io 


Index. 


The  Cow-Boy,  183 

The  Dancing  Girl,  166 

The  Deserted  Chapel,  299 

The  Dying  Veteran,  113 

The  First  Dandelion,  109 

The  Fishing  Boy,  176 

The  Fool's  Prayer,  259 

The  Fountain,  29 

The  Grass  is  Greener  where  She 

Sleeps,  242 
The  Gray  Swan,  228 
The  Hunter,  291 
The  Last  Leaf,  98 
The  Little  Beach-Bird,  141 
The  Madonna  di  San  Sisto,  231 
The  Minute-Guns,  244 
The   Orchard    Lands    of    Long 

Ago,  284 

The  Poet  in  the  East,  118 
The  Revenge  of  Hamish,  126 
The  River,  59 
The  Riviera,  255 
The  Rivulet,  20 
The  Ship  Starting,  no 
The  Silent,  58 
The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  67 
The  Spring  Beauties,  292 
The  Stars  and  Stripes,  190 
The  Stethoscope  Song,  100 
The  Three  Singers,  221 
The  Trees  of  Life,  60 
The  Varuna,  206 
The  Way  of  It,  272 
The  Wild  Honeysuckle,  139 
Thomas,  Edith  Matilda,  287 
Thomson,  62 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  175 
Three  Graves,  276 
Three  Hundred  Thousand  More, 

204 


Timrod,  Henry,  218,  246,  25: 

To  a  Butterfly,  153 

To  a  Certain  Civilian,  in 

To  a  Waterfowl,  12 

To  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  88 

To  Faneuil  Hall,  33 

To  Helen,  53 

To  Leo  XIII.,  291 

To  the  River ,  51 

U 

Underwood,  R.  H.,  82 
Union  and  Liberty,  93 


Very,  Jones,  56-8,  105 
Virgil,  227 

W 

Wallace,  William  Ross,  168 

Wanted — A  Man,  202 

Ward,  W.  H.,  125 

Wedded,  240 

What  Think   You    I    Take    my 

Pen  in  Hand?  no 
Whitman,  Walt,  107-109,  217 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  3,  5, 

24-9,  79,  105,   124,    190,   215, 

236 
Willis,    Nathaniel    Parker,    136, 

137,  157 
Woodberry,  George  Edward,  51, 

215,  290 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree,  155 
Wordsworth,  William,  4,  141 


Yonnondio,  114 
Yourself,  59 


A     000  684  962     4 


